


Part 1: The Darkness That Lies Within Us

by silverdaggers



Series: the Mana Yatara series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anchor Lydia, Blood and Gore, Brother Scott, Caring Derek, Family, Gen, Horror, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pack Bonding, Protective Derek, Psychological Horror, Spells & Enchantments, Sterek if you squint, Supernatural Elements, derek hale/stiles stilinski - Freeform, ish, read the tags, slight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverdaggers/pseuds/silverdaggers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole situation feels untangible. Unfamiliar. Out of reach. He remembers when it used to be just him, his thoughts, and the woods. It wasn't his preferred state of being, but it was certainly less complicated. When he first saw Stiles, he was a bundle of nervous energy, insides itching to move, to get away. But he was a kid. A stupid kid with his stupid friend, trespassing in search of an inhaler they lost while stupidly looking for a dead body. </p><p>Now a dead body is the closet thing Stiles resembles.</p><p>OR</p><p>Something's wrong with Derek and Stiles; something that Scott doesn't know how to fix without Deaton's help. A little banshee power tossed with some supernatural sickness, topped with a generous serving of my favorite TW boys. Spiced with: brother!Scott, hurt!Stiles, caring!Darek, a pinch of anchor!Lydia, advisor!Deaton. (I'm so lame...) (This is a long fic with lots of wibbly wobbly things, so we'll see how this goes.)</p><p>Link to Part 2: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4643721/chapters/10590843</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**A/N: So, I've been... doing nothing constructive. Watching TV episodes... rewatching TV episodes... reading others' fanfictions... All that good stuff. Buuut, I got an idea and couldn't** **_not_ ** **write it, so, here's the prologue. It's super short and I apologize if it's boring (it's better in Chapter 1), but I just needed to set it up for the first Chapter. I don't know how fast I'll write this, but I will try to actually freaking finish it.**

**I just thought that Stiles got over** **_being possessed by a trickster spirit_ ** **too easily and needed a little (a lot)** **acknowledgement of that, so that's where the title inspiration came from. It's a work in progress; may change it later. And I just love a little Derek and Stiles dynamic, so I had to torture them both. XP**

**This is unbeta-ed, so... beware. And, hey, if you're looking to be someone's beta reader...**

**Timeline: Takes place after Season 3, before Season 4**

**000**

**Prologue**

000

His phone rings.

The sound chimes through his skull, chasing away the remnants of sleep like the flip of a switch. He abruptly sits up, blindly reaching to the blurry rectangle of light on his nightstand and sliding his finger across the screen. The smudged numbers reading 'one thirty-six' quickly disappear.

"Hello?" he rushes out, knowing that for anyone to call him at this hour, it'd have to be significant.

"Scott?" says a frantic, feminine voice, laced with panic.

"Lydia?" He starts, rising to his feet while pressing the phone harder against his ear. "What are you-"

"You need to get to Derek's -  _now_. I... Stiles went inside and... and - something's wrong, Scott, he told me to call you," she rambles, voice pitched higher than usual.

"Okay, okay. I'm on my way," he reassures and grabs his jacket, glad he'd fallen asleep with at least his sweats and a tank top. "Where is Stiles now? Why is he at Derek's?"  _Why is something wrong?_  He practically falls down the stairs and stumbles out the door, almost forgetting his bike's keys.

"I..." Her voice drifts off to silence, then a sharp buzzing noise grates against Scott's sensitive ears, sounding warped as if transmitting through water. It cuts off suddenly and he can only hear silence and hesitant breathing once more, as if his ears malfunctioned.

"Lydia?" The rumbling of his bike's engine thwarts his hearing, but he can't risk pausing for a response, he reminds himself, as he rolls down his street towards Derek's flat. "Lydia, can you-" Her breathing picks up and the phone is rustling against something, presumably her cheek. Running; she's running. "What is it? Lydia, what's going on?" The thumping of his own heart accelerates as he tries to keep his swirling thoughts at bay, at least until he gets there. " _Lydia!_ "

The rustling has stopped, but he can still hear her labored breaths brushing against her phone's speaker.

"I..." she croaks. "I don't..." Even over the phone, he can hear her swallow. "Stiles?" she squeaks and then there's more rustling.

"What?" The panic climbs a notch higher until it feels like a boulder is set on his chest. "What's happening - are they okay? Lydia, tell me what's going on!" Desperation clogs his throat, forcing him to count his breaths and time them - one, two, three, four, five, in - one, two, three, four, five, out...

"I-I'm... I don't know." She sounds distracted and it's driving Scott's mind into overdrive. "Stiles! Stiles, wake up," she whispers, her breaths pounding static into his ear.

" _Lydia-_ "

"He won't wake up," she almost snaps, the words stiff and terse, and Scott freezes on his bike, his hands sticky and wet as they grip the handles with werewolf strength. He takes a deep breath through his nose and prompts his brain to keep functioning. _Take a breath, concentrate, what are the details?_

"... What do you mean he won't wake up?" he manages.

" _I mean he won't wake up!_  Stiles went in, s-something... flashed, and now he's unconscious. I... I-I don't see any head injury, I..." The phone shifts against her ear. "I don't see Derek anywhere... Stiles?" he hears, Lydia's voice muffled as she tries to wake their friend. "He won't wake up."

"Okay, um..." he clenches his jaw and tries to think a more coherent thought that doesn't involve the blinding panic swarming his head. "Something flashed?"

"Yeah, like a... a... It was like a flash of-of light, but... it wasn't..." she stutters, each word forced from her mouth.

"What? Lydia, you're not making-"

"It was like a flash of light, but it was dark instead. Like a flash of... dark..."

A flash of dark.

Well.

That doesn't sound good.

"Lydia, I'm on my way. Don't hang up, but try to find Derek, or even Peter." A small squeak comes from the other line. "I know, but what choice do we have? I'm almost there."

"Okay," comes the simple but still trembling reply.

"Okay," he repeats, forcing confidence into his tone. For her sake.

000

**A/N: So, there's the prologue. If you didn't like it, I hope you'll stick around for Chapter 1. Especially if you like hurt!Stiles. I'M SORRY. But I'm not sorry for having caring!Derek. B) If you love the TW bromances, stay close.**

**Leave a review, my lovelies, they are the input, chapters are the output!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Aha, so here we are. I really hope I didn't forget anything. This story is pretty wacky and all over the place, so I hope I didn't forget any details. Don't be surprised if a future A/N mentions an edit that will need re-reading, though. :)**

**Oh, btw, THIS IS AN AU. The last scene with Derek and (spoiler for S4) Kate in The Divine Move did not happen, but that doesn't mean that she isn't alive or doesn't want to kidnap him. :P I just won't be touching on her in this story very much. That is all.**

**Anyways, here it is. I hope the writing flows enough and that the characters and genuine and not OOC.**

**000**

**Chapter 1**

000

He opens his eyes. Or, at least he thinks he does. It's hard to tell when there's no change, the space in front of his face drowned in black. Even though he's just waking up, his heart is thumping against his ribcage and his face feels flushed beneath numbed skin. It's hard to breathe, each inhale and exhale strained, like oxygen is suddenly made of syrup. It slips in and out of his lungs, not feeding enough, not lingering enough, and his head swims.

 _Breathe, Stiles, breathe,_  he instructs himself, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw.  _Breathe._

The smooth surface beneath him feels ice cold against his bare hands and through his tee and hoodie and his sweats. It almost feels like glass, chilled by winter air and bleeding through to his bones. He shivers. A deep breath fills his lungs finally, and he blinks his eyes open again, gaze searching for anything to catch on besides the darkness. Faint light appears, although he's not sure from where. But he can see; he can see a ceiling - or is it a wall..?

A  _surface_  inches from his face, stretching up and down the length of his body, continuing on out of sight, while bending into walls on his left and right, creating a small crawlspace. Like a duct.  _Like a coffin,_  he thinks and it suddenly gets harder to breathe again.

He shifts his weight to the left, inching in his confines until he's rolled onto his stomach, gasping from the effort. Why is to so hard to breathe? What, is there an oxygen deficiency here?

...Wherever 'here' is...

Something is held weakly in his grasp subconsciously, and he pauses to feel it.

A phone... his phone? He bends his arms underneath himself until he holds his hands in front of his face, the phone's screen lighting up, although dim. Zero bars. Figures.

His throat feels dry from his erratic breathing and he pauses to swallow, his saliva like glue as it moistens his mouth.

Without an actual plan in mind, he starts army crawling through the space, counting each second as he calms his breathing - his heartbeat, to regular patterns. Minutes feel like hours, time a foreign concept in... wherever he is. He chants encouragement to himself, trying not to think about how he is probably wrong.

_Come on, Stiles._

_Almost there, Stiles._

_Keep going._

_Just a few more yards._

Lies, he knows, but refuses to admit as the tunnel inches on. He doesn't stop. He won't stop.

Until the floor holding him up trembles.

He frowns, gazing ahead for any source of disturbance. Only a horizon-less hole. He cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder in his limited space, eyes widening as he spots something shifting far behind him. It twitches, shivering like a leaf in the autumn breeze. Almost... glitching. Like an old video game.

A feeling of dread pools in his stomach, icey fingers gripping his gut and tickling the back of his throat, but he doesn't move.  _You need to move, Stiles,_  he berates himself, but he is frozen in place, watching as the figure continues to quiver.

Then it convulses, appearing closer to him in a second, as if fast-forwarded by the universe.

He still can't make out what it is, but he's not sticking around to find out. Staving off his panic, he scrambles to go faster, squirming on, a pathetic attempt to survive; he can feel it, bursting in his chest with his heart as it tries to escape his ribcage. Keep going, keep going, keep going...

His breaths strangle in his throat when he can practically feel its footsteps as it advances on him. Come on, Stiles, go, go, gogogogo..!

Feather-light fingertips slither up his bare ankle and wrap around it and he bites off a scream for help; nobody is here, dumbass.

And then the floor disappears.

He's weightless, caught in midair, the thing's hand still curled around his foot. The air whips past him as he flails to find purchase on something; anything at all. He barely makes out the thing screeching through the blood rushing in his ears.

His lungs are emptied by brute force. He's caught by something just as cold and hard as the crawlspace, the creature's screams cut off as they both hit the ground. An ear-splitting crack reverberates in his eardrums and pain flares in his left arm, clawing like fire to his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat, ripping a scream from his lips. His head swims as he struggles to get his bearings.

The soft hand returns, this time on his tender shoulders, rough and quick as he's yanked off the floor. More agony fills his body, injured arm dragging uselessly with the rest of his limbs.

 _Fight back!_  his mind orders and he complies without a second thought, good arm reaching up to claw at the fingers now wrapped around his throat. He kicks out with both feet, startled when they connect with skin and bone and shove the monster away, releasing him from its hold.

Dumb luck. It was just dumb luck. He knows that. Fight or flight are now the only two options and he knows which one is more promising.

He runs.

Blind and uneven steps carry him down a hallway, the floor visible from an unseen source of light. It's too dark. It's too hard to breathe. What the hell is chasing him?  _Where_  the hell is he? It's all too familiar: waking up somewhere he can't remember going to, the constant feeling of a panic attack in his peripheral, monsters veiled by darkness coming after him, teeth barred and claws extended.

But it can't be happening again. It isn't. It's not. It can't be.

He shoves the thought aside just as something shoves _him_  - straight into the wall from his left side, jarring his injured arm while shoving his right side against the glass-like black tiles. He cries out, breathing erratic as he struggles against the boney form standing over his dazed body, its clawed fingertips digging through his tee and hoodie into his upper arms, holding him in place. Fire ignites in his left shoulder, beaneath the curled talons. Knotted hair hangs from the creature's head, brushing the tip of his nose and causing nausea to hover in his stomach. He grabs at the arms and wriggles under its hold, gaze locked with the two white spheres of twinkling light, framed by pure shadow underneath the ratty blond locks.

The arms of his attacker feel wrinkled and surprisingly soft, almost too soft like he could tear the flesh from its bones if he could stomach it. He glances up and down the monster, noticing the two legs, two arms, one head, and surprisingly, a faded and dirty cream-colored dress, pink ribbon and everything.

Crap. He's in a real life horror movie.

It hisses, a mere whisper to what he expected to be coming from her dark, chapped lips. But he's not surprised when he spots gleaming fangs for teeth behind them.

With a grunt, he kicks her away, scrambling to his feet, already sprinting away, broken arm - yes, definitely broken - cradled against his stomach.

He doesn't last long. Once again, the demon girl pounces on his back, this time accompanied with sharp, needle-like pains where her fingernails sink into the flesh cushioning his collarbone. He grits his teeth and backs into the nearest wall, catching her between it and himself, jarring his own injuries. It screeches in protest and its grip slackens. He stumbles away from it, turning around just it time to receive another attack. It plows him into the wall with unnatural strength. The air slips from his lungs, leaving him gasping as he drops to the floor.

Through blurry vision, he sees the back of the girl as she takes three steps away from him, facing something out of sight. An animalistic bellow sounds beneath the increased ringing in his ears.

Crap, crap, crap...

But his limbs won't cooperate; they won't hold his weight and his head feels like it will topple from his neck. His blurry vision is pulsing in gray, aligned with the rhythm of his heart.

The demon girl - that's what he's gonna go with - leans forward in an offensive stance and he can just make out her mouth open in a scream he can't hear.

But she suddenly flinches back, mouth closing, position uncertain. He imagines the  _click_  noise as her jaw snaps shut, since he can't seem to hear anything beyond a dull ringing and his heartbeat at the moment.

Before his mind can come up with a sluggish response, she turns on her heel and practically teleports away, leaving a dark blur. His breath catches in his throat. Something is here, he heard that much. And if it is enough to scare creepy zombie girl away...

He doesn't think it's possible, but his heart starts beating faster, his lungs seizing even more.  _Breathe, Stiles._  But he can't breathe. He can't-

"Stiles!" a voice barks and a thankfully very  _human_  form jogs into his line of sight, crouching in front of him, a distinct frown twisting the familiar face. Stiles practically melts into the floor with relief, despite the bone-chilling temperature. He lets his eyes flutter shut and basks in the moment of security, no matter how short it could be, but a strong hand grabs his good shoulder, pulling his bleeding skin taught. A yelp leaves his mouth and he sits up straighter.

"Dude," he protests breathlessly, swiping at the grip, surprised to find his muscles sapped of their previous strength. "That kinda hurts."

The hand leaves. "Sorry," is the small reply, a startlingly small reply, for Mr. Macho Werewolf Man.

A stiff silence fills the air and Stiles hurries to find something to say. He never could let a room stay quiet for long.

"What the hell are we doing here?" he wheezes, recalling where he was before waking up in the small space, now that there's not a possessed girl chasing after him. He was in Derek's flat, Lydia was outside calling Scott and... Nothing. Just waking up in an unfamiliar place...

Unless...

No. Oh God, no. Not this shit again.

The ex-Alpha must have noticed Stiles' increased heartrate because there's a hand back on his shoulder, gentle this time.

"Stiles, open your eyes," Derek commands, tone clipped with a careful determination.

Stiles complies, giving Derek his best exasperated look. "I think I've earned a breather."

"Maybe, but we don't have time. We need to find a way out of here," he mutters, standing and glancing up and down the wide hallway.

"Y'sure there _is_  a way out?" Stiles slurs while trying to get to his feet, palm slipping as he braces it against the wall. Stifling a curse, he tries again, this time successful in stumbling vertical, with the help of the wall. He feels the blood rush from his face and stars fade in and out of his darkening vision. The world tilts, but a hand catches him by the shoulders, causing Stiles to hiss in pain.

"Stiles?" Derek sounds strangely concerned, almost panicked... But Stiles shrugs it off. It's not like they have a reason not to panic, anyway.

"I just..." He lists to the side again when he shakes his head, trying to rid it of the pinpricks of light swarming like fireflies in his eyes. "Dizzy," he manages, mouth feeling dry.

Derek's right hand moves to the top of Stiles' head, tilting it down, searching for something.

"Hey, whoa, paws off." He swats the hand off his head and gives Derek and strange look.

"I'm checking for a..." Head injury, Stiles assumes he is going to say, but he doesn't finish. Instead, his eyes narrow suspiciously and his head tilts back, then forward, nose twitching.

"Um, Derek," Stiles chances after a moment.

"Why do you smell like that?" comes the reply tinted with confusion, Derek's nose still twitching.

Well, you don't hear that question every day. "Like what?" he says instead, because he really should be used to questions like that by now.

"Like..." Derek pauses, sniffing audibly. "I don't know, it's..." Stiles frowns curiously when the wolf's eyes widen, but before he can ask, Derek's grip moves to the collar of his shirt, yanking on the fabric until the claw marks from the demon girl are visible.

"What-" Stiles starts and jerks away, squeezing his eyes shut when he's held in place, pain spiking through his broken arm. "Would you just-" He bites back a groan. Taking deep breaths through his nose, he focuses on his senses instead of the intense throbbing in his fractured limb. It's cold, familiarly so, taking him back to Scott's house, shivering no matter how many layers he wore. He waves that thought away; moving on. The only noise he can hear is his heartbeat and a slight ringing that won't go away. He feels... like crap. God, his arm-

"...iles!" Derek's voice is suddenly crystal clear, causing Stiles to flinch. "Stiles, snap out of it!"

"God, my arm,  _let go of my arm._ " Eyes still closed, he grits his teeth to keep from crying out. Derek immediately lets go and when Stiles opens his eyes, Derek's a few inches back, hands still hovering uncertainly over his arms.

"What? What is it?" he asks in a rush, eyes clear.

"It's fricking broken, that's what!" he spats while curling over himself, shielding his wounded body from further abuse. "And you were just holding it in your werewolfy super-grasp." Careful not to jar it but not entirely succeeding, he holds his left arm, grip trembling. "Son of a..." He blows out a breath glares up at Derek.

"How did you break it?" he asks, looking at Stiles' arm as if it is a puzzle in need of solving.

"It... I was... The floor disappeared," Stiles says pathetically, sighing.

Derek blinks at him.

"The floor disappeared?" he repeats, face blank.

" _Yes,_  the floor disappeared!"

"And...?" Derek watches him expectantly.

"And I fell," he answers clearly, nodding like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And broke my arm."

No reaction. Stiles purses his lips.

"Yes, I know it doesn't make any sense, but what does!?" he finishes exasperatedly, straightening, arm still held against his body. "God..." He squeezes his eyes shut again.

"Give me your jacket."

Stiles squints up at the Beta, heart pounding in his shoulder and arm and in his head. "What..?"

"Give. Me. Your jacket," he says simply, posture waiting.

Stiles scowls, but obeys, shrugging his hoodie off easily from his right arm, but pausing at his left. Gingerly grabbing the hem of the sleeve, he begins the tedious task of tugging it off. It gets harder to breathe and he feels sweat trickling down his forehead, but he finally manages to wrestle his second layer off and toss it to Derek, aching from his shoulder down to his wrist. When he catches sight of his forearm, the pain feels sharper and stronger than before.

Purple and red splotches cover sections of it, staining the swollen skin like a abstract art canvas. He hears no response from the older man in front of him. Glancing up, Derek is closer, eyes tracing his bruised arm, jacket throw over his shoulder. His gaze suddenly meets Stiles', a question stirring it the dull green orbs as he reaches for the injury.

"What..." Stiles starts to object, but doesn't pull away, holding his breath when Derek lifts it up an inch to examine it, more pain sparking from the movement. Each fraction of an inch sets his shoulder on fire. He almost pulls away when Derek speaks, the pain on the verge of unbearable.

"Can you feel your fingers?"

Stiles nods.

"Can you  _move_  your fingers?"

Stiles nods again, wiggling said fingers to make his point.

"Your wrist?"

Stiles pauses and glances between Derek's strangely blank face and his gingerly held lower arm, swallowing nervously. Shakily, he tilts his wrist up, then down, biting his lip as his arm twinges. As Derek continues to examine, his eyes are focused on everything, expression cooled. It reminds Stiles of Ms. McCall.

"I don't think any bone fragments broke through..." Derek mutters, ending the silence and causing Stiles to blink at him.

"... broke through... what?"

Derek lifts his head to give him a dry look. "Your flesh."

"Ah," Stiles confirms unsteadily, going back to eyeing his bruises and the fingers suddenly prodding them. He bites back a yelp and jerks his arm, sending more agony through his shoulder. A groan slips from his lips and he's doubling over again, cringing away from the white-hot ache. "I think my shoulder's dislocated," he informs breathlessly. He's watched enough movies and done enough research to guess. If it's not dislocated, it's certainly bruised... bruised like Satan himself pinched it.

He hears a sigh. "Which one do you want me to fix first?"

Stiles freezes, blood running cold. He shivers again. He's also researched putting a dislocated shoulder back into place... and setting broken bones... "Shit..." he hisses, nausea wrapping its fingers around his stomach.

"Your arm is definitely broken, but I think it's a clean break; I should be able to set it until we can... get out of here," Derek offers, not giving much reassurance.

"And you know how to put my shoulder back in place?"

Derek nods.

Another pained sigh leaves Stiles' lungs, coming out in barely visible wisps of white. "I read it on WikiHow." He gives a weak grin. If Derek finds it funny, he doesn't react. But when does he ever?

He gestures at his shoulder with his good hand and finds a point on the floor to watch as Derek comes to his left, gently taking his injured arm and positioning it off to the side, fist pointed at the ceiling as his arm forms a ninety-degree angle. Derek doesn't even pause, just starts slowly rotating his arm at the shoulder upwards. The muscles stretch and pull, bones shifting. Stiles bites his lip to keep from making any noise, barely noticing the taste of copper on his tongue. The constant mantra of  _don'tthrowupdon'tthrowupdon'tthrowup_  continues until a disturbing pop noise sounds, joint sliding.

Derek doesn't let go of his arm, instead, he stands their stoicly - when does he not? - as Stiles fights off the acid burning in the back of his throat, breathing erratic as he fights to control the pain.

"... I hate you," he says in a rush, saving most of his oxygen for not passing out.

"Your welcome," comes the terse response. His arm his lowered back down, but Derek doesn't let go. "What was that thing that attacked you, anyway?"

A shiver runs down Stiles' spine at the memory, his flesh-injuries burning hot in contrast. "I don't-"

Stiles' arm seems to light on fire, accompanied with a sickening crack that makes his knees feel weak. He manages to hold in a scream, but the strangled noise that does slip from his chest sounds more like a dying animal. He's supported by two hands and Derek's saying something, but his heart won't quiet down and there's too much black bleeding into his vision for him to see anything definite. The cold black tiles against his back and bare feet suddenly feel unnaturally cold against his flushed, slick skin, sending pinpricks of numbness to crawl up his toes and bite his shoulder blades. He thinks he's shaking, from the cold or from the pain, he's not sure which.

Derek's voice is nonexistent now, disappearing into the darkness that clouds his eyes. He thinks he's passed out until the fog recedes, revealing the black tiles again and piercing gold-green eyes searching his face. Stiles blinks and moistens his lips, willing his eyes to clear. Derek looks just as focused as before, if not more, and he's just staring, waiting for... something...

Whatever he is waiting for, he must find it as he starts nodding, eyebrows raising in what looks like expectance.

"Stiles." It's not a question, it's an alert. Though his eyelids feel heavy, Stiles forces his gaze to lock with Derek's in answer. "Breathe." And Stiles notices there are stars again and he releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Holy..." he wheezes, blinking hard to wash the blurriness away. His arm throbs painfully, each pump of blood sending shocks of fire up the limb. He avoids looking at the damage. The wall is blissfully cool against the back of his neck and he presses his skull against it, leaching the cold from it. Hands return to his arm, gentle but still surprising enough for him to start. Derek doesn't seem to notice.

His arm is maneuvered to lay across the inside of his hoodie, along the back, then the sleeves are tied above his opposite shoulder, creating a makeshift sling. He can't help but huff a laugh.

"Was starting to wonder why you needed my jacket," he mutters, feeling strangely feverish.

Derek's head shoots up, expression showing the first actual signs of alarm since they got here. Gaze flickering over Stiles, he pulls the collar of his shirt down again, eyeing the puncture wounds.

"What are you doing?" Stiles scowls.

"What was that thing that attacked you?"

"What? I... I don't know, it-"

"It looked like a girl, right?" Derek questions, meeting his gaze again before quickly darting back to the scratches. Stiles pauses.

"Y-yeah, but-"

"Was it an Acheri?"

"A what..?" Stiles drifts off, because he knows that name. An Acheri. A... a spirit... who comes down from the mountains, bringing sickness to children, but not limited to them, sometimes the elderly or sick, usually taking the form of a girl... But... a  _spirit?_  A _ghost?_  What, werewolves, kanimas, banshees, druids, darachs and nogitsunes weren't enough? "But that's..."

"An evil spirit, yes," Derek finishes, jaw clenched.

"But..." he stutters, feeling lost and searching for the appropriate response. "How do you even know they exist?"

"Well, considering my role in society, I've become accustomed to the contents of beastiaries." Derek's gaze jumps up to Stiles' face for a second. "And if I'm right..."

"Wait, wait, are you saying that I'm... 'sick'? Because of that thing?" He licks his lips when he gets no answer. "But how? I wasn't sick before, I'm not 'old' and I'm pretty sure when I read that it goes after children, teens were not part of that category."

"Where did you read that?" Derek rises and extends his hand to Stiles, who grabs it, pulling until he too is vertical. His limbs feel floaty and heavy at the same time, his skin slick with sweat that is cooling as fast as it produces, causing him to tremble from the cold. At least the freezing temperatures are starting to get cold enough to numb his injuries, or maybe it's just some weird side affect of being rendered diseased by an evil spirit?

"Stiles?"

The name brings his head up, eyes blinking owlishly at the source. "Hm?"

Derek frowns, and Stiles swears he can see the gears spinning behind his eyes. "The Acheri brings sickness, but it doesn't limit itself to children or the elderly. If it's desperate enough, it will feed off of anything it can."

Stiles nods.

"... And... it's not just sickness or disease. At least, it's not what you automatically think of. It's a supernatural creature and it gives supernatural sickness."

Fingertips tingling, Stiles starts to curl and uncurl them, hoping to stave off any numbness that might thwart his only good arm. "Well that doesn't at all sound like a death sentence," he mutters, mouth turning down at the corners, shaking his hand out. Derek immediately notices; like a dog with a bone.

Stiles smirks despite himself.  _Heh... 'Dog with a bone'..._

"What's wrong with your hand?"

The question takes him back, like a rewind in his head, to the parking lot of a car garage, being interrogated by a concerned father who knew nothing of the real situation, lies slipping off his own tongue with ease; 'Nothing' is wrong with his hand, he was just momentarily paralyzed by a lizard shapeshifter, it's nothing, really... Those days were so much simpler...

And isn't that just screwed up.

He swallows and shrugs his good shoulder, clenching his hand into a fist. "'S just tingling a little."

Derek narrows his eyes.

"Come on," he beckons, starting off down the spacious hallway, towards the door at one end. Noticing there is a similar door on the other end, Stiles pauses and swallows down a wave of nausea.

"Where the hell are we?" he questions, surprised when Derek stops in his tracks and turns around to speak. His face is twisted in uncertainty.

"... What are you doing here, Stiles?" he asks, tone dimmed in what sounds like resignation.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, also confused. "What? I just-"

" _Why_  are you here?" Derek specifies.

"I..." he drifts off, thinking back.

Lydia had called him. At one o'clock... in the morning, concerned and feeling a familiar overwhelming dread; a cloud of dread directed at Derek specifically. She didn't know why, but she just knew. Stiles didn't need anything more; he of all people knew not to doubt a banshee. They met up outside the loft where Stiles found out she hadn't called anyone else yet, instructing her to phone Scott and wait outside until he arrives, while he went in himself, looking for said Sourwolf...

Then he wakes up in a freaking hell-duct.

He, of course, says none of this out loud, instead, leaning on the safety his sarcasm and smart-alek tendencies. "Why are  _you?_ "

Derek's jaw twitches.

"Do you think anyone else is here?" he asks after a moment. Stiles shrugs, wincing as he pulls his tender shoulder. Derek's eyebrows raise. "... Is there a reason you're still standing there?"

Stiles grimaces and shuffles forward, ignoring his aching and frozen limbs, hoping there is, indeed, a way out of wherever the hell they are.

000

**A/N: That's that. Hope it wasn't confusing or anything or that the characters sounded off. I hope you liked it. :D**

**Tell me what you think (pretty pleeeaaase?).**

**Reviews are golden, as always! <3 Love you guys!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, I did, believe or not, a LOT of research on TWO FREAKING LITTLE WORDS. Anyway, it turned out to be pretty fun, making this stuff up. So much fun. :D I hope it's not too wacky for your mind to wrap around/accept.**

**I'm gonna try posting at least once a week, but we'll see. ;)**

**Again, I love your feedback and it's usually constructive. Let's me know what I need to work on or if it's even catching your attention. Honestly, I hope it's not a lost cause, but it may be since I just kind of write when it comes to me (not all of it, but a lot).**

**Anyways, enjoy!**

**000**

**Chapter 2**

000

Scott grips the handlebars of his bike harder, wishing they would crumble under his grasp but at the same time keeping just enough control not to. Derek was unresponsive as well; Peter missing entirely. No matter how hard he hit or how much he yelled, neither Derek nor Stiles even flinched. Scott blinks the space in front of him into focus, through the tinted windows of Lydia's car and through the shadows of night, catching her eye in the rearview. She holds his gaze for a moment and he has to wonder if it's for her own sake or his.

It isn't hard to assume that Derek and Stiles' state are related; both being in the loft, both being in the loft while the 'flash or dark' struck, both completely unresponsive, appearing as if only asleep. And it isn't hard to assume that  _it's not normal._  God knows he wishes they were just deep sleepers who also sleepwalked. God also knows that that's not actually the case.

Biting back his worry and channeling it into determination, he focuses on getting to Deaton's in one piece and not flashing his scarlet eyes in public, even in the dead of night.

They arrive shortly, but there's still fingers of dread squeezing Scott's gut, the feeling doubled halfway to the the vet's due to the sudden climb in Lydia's heartrate. She didn't pull over, but that did little to ease his nerves. He launches himself off his bike and scrambles over to the banshee's vehicle, yanking the passenger door open to check on Stiles, breaths shaky from adrenaline.

"What happened?" he asks, because he knows even before he sees anything. He can see it etched into Lydia's expression, shadowing her eyes and dampening her countenance.

"Stiles' arm - it broke," she says desperately, climbing out of the driver's seat and rounding the hood to the other side.

"It broke!?" He glances down, but Lydia's quick to correct him.

"Left arm."

"H-how?" he manages to ask as he gently pulls his friend out, looping the good arm over his shoulders to drag him inside.

"I-I don't know! I was just driving and I heard..." She doesn't finish.

"Okay..." he sighs. "Do you have Deaton's number?" Surprisingly, she nods.

He struggles his key out of his pocket and shoves it into the lock, twisting hard and precisely and shoving the door open. He rushes inside, ignoring the yowls and barks of any new animal that doesn't recognize his scent, hauling Stiles' body into the back room and lifting it onto one of the cleared metal tables. Stiles' skin feels cold - too cold. Scott examines his left arm, mouth going dry as he spots not only the forearm's damage, but the strange angle of his shoulder also. Small dots of blood stain the front of Stiles' shirt and Scott pulls the collar down, clenching his jaw at the small puncture wounds underneath. Reluctantly, he darts back outside to retrieve Derek, not entirely surprised to find he is, too, freezing to the touch. He checks him over for injuries, gazing over to Lydia when she cautiously steps in.

"So you're sure his arm wasn't broken before we put him in your car?"

Lydia nods, eyes wild. "It just broke on the way; n-nothing happened, I just heard it. He was just sitting there and it broke."

Scott stifles a curse, running his fingers through his hair. Could they ever catch a break?

"Did you call Deaton?" She nods again. "Okay..."

He keeps saying that. But he's sure that it's one of the words that least describes the situation.

"Are they... okay?" Lydia asks quietly, but even that cracks through the room like thunder. Scott turns back to his two unconscious friends, eyeing them both.

"Besides Stiles' arm, I think so."

He hears the car's engine, twisting around to watch the doorway, listening to quick footsteps, the front door opening, then spotting the familiar face of his boss.

"Thank God," he breathes, watching the older man hopefully as he strides forward to stand between both tables.

"Lydia explained a little to me," Deaton says while checking Derek's breathing, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Do you know what's wrong with them?"

"Not yet," he's quick to answer, frowning upon Stiles' injury. "And you don't know how this happened?" His gaze darts between the teenagers in question.

"No," they both answer.

Deaton does nothing more than eye the shoulder, lips thinning in a grim line. "It's dislocated. Scott?" He waves the younger man over. Although hesitantly, Scott complies, coming to stand over Stiles' head. "I need you to-" Their patient's chest starts ever-so-slightly heaving, raising higher and sinking lower than before. Scott hears his friend's heartbeat jump, shoulder suddenly shifting, a slick popping noise striking Scott's eardrums and tying a sick knot in his stomach. His eyes widen. They exchange a quick look, then lean down to inspect the joint.

"It's set," Deaton says simply, tone neutral, leaving Scott feeling lightheaded.

"Did you-"

"No. Did either of you try to set it? Stretch his arm?" Both of them shake their heads, Lydia approaching cautiously. Deaton purses his lips with a small 'hm' noise.

"What does that mean?" Scott chances.

Deaton doesn't answer, instead sliding his hands over Stiles' forearm, practiced fingers feeling the bone gently through skin and muscle. Stiles looks ashen, a sheen of sweat covering his face and Scott places a hand on his good shoulder, hoping that somehow, it provides comfort.

"I think-" Once again, another sharp crack cuts off Deaton's diagnosis, Stiles' heartrate spiking. His body goes rigid against the metal table-top, breaths stuttering through his nose while his face gets impossibly whiter except for the sudden flush on his cheeks.

"What did you do?" Scott questions, eyes darting up and down the light bruises painting his friend's arm.

"His arm just set - I don't know how, but it did."

Scott can't help but notice the intervals in Derek's heartbeat, despite his slack form. His fingers are twitching, but aside from that, only his heart gives any indication he's, if anything, not sleeping peacefully.

"How can it just set by itself?" Lydia asks breathlessly, placing her hands against both sides of Stiles' face.

"I don't know," Deaton repeats, turning away to the counter behind him to rustle through the drawers.

"He's not breathing!" Lydia squeaks and Scott clutches the edge of the table, feeling it warp beneath his fingers.  _Breathe, Stiles, breathe..._

"Deaton!"

Stiles suddenly goes slack, tension leaking from his muscles, and everyone freezes. His breathing evens out, but still shudders with each inhale and exhale. They all exchange nervous glances.

"What was that?" Lydia voices their thoughts.

Slowly, Deaton turns around, penlight in hand, and comes to stand next to Stiles. He places his hand on Stiles' forehead and uses his thumb to lift one of his eyelids, gently prying it open. The temperature seems to drop and a shiver races down Scott's spine, tickling his fingertips. Lydia lifts her hands from Stiles' face, gasping, while Deaton leans further down, clicking the light off and lifting the second eyelid with his other hand.

Two pools of darkness have taken residence in Stiles' eye sockets, replacing the white, the sparking cinnamon and milder black with a seemingly endless pit of obsidian. They shine, almost like they're shifting, pinpricks of light completing the affect.

Deaton opens his mouth to speak, but Scott is already over next to Derek, checking him. He's caught in the similar sightless gaze, almost gravitated towards their depths.

"What?" he hears Lydia say. He glances up, seeing Deaton's still-grim expression, but it looks less confused than before.

"What is it? Do you know what's wrong with them?"

Deaton raises his gaze up to Scott, then Lydia, giving a small nod. "I think so."

000

"S' where'd you learn h-how to break an already-broken b-bone and still manage t-t'be productive?" Stiles' voice rings in Derek's hyper-sensitive ears, grating against his ossicles and even managing to break his cold exterior with a flinch. He very obviously hates Stiles' inability to keep his mouth shut for more than a few minutes, but he honestly prefers any questions over the sound of their repetitive footsteps and Stiles' shivering, labored breaths. The faint  _thump, thump_  of the kid's heartbeat has gotten steadily quicker over the past... hour? two hours? - but Derek can't bring himself to tune it out. It's reassuring in a way, even if all it does is remind him that Stiles is probably hypothermic by now, or at the very least, almost there.

"You aren't the first human to be in a werewolf pack," he supplies, because he really doesn't want to tell the story. Not that he loathes the whole memory, but he'd rather use his brain activity for finding a way out of this hell-hole than reminiscing about popping bones back into place. God, how many doors had they gone through that actually proved helpful? None at all, as far as he can tell, but they've gone through too many doors to count. Only more black tiles and more black doors, each differently-shaped room just as empty as the last.

But he can't really complain about the emptiness. It's better than running into another Acheri.

"C-care to elaborate?" Stiles presses after a moment of silence. Derek steps through a doorway, peeking around the corner at the surprisingly narrow hall further on. Well, that's  _something_  new. It looks about as wide as his shoulders.

"Not really," he responds, waving Stiles ahead of him before they start down the small hallway. He'd rather have the human where he can see him; maybe their current confines will prevent him from lagging behind... again. At least this way he can see any threat to the very mortal being next to him.

"Sourwolf," he catches Stiles mutter, raising his eyebrows at the old nickname. He hasn't heard it in a while.

Stiles' strides shorten after what Derek guesses to be a few minutes, good hand bracing against the wall. Waves of nausea have been coming off of the teen for the past hour or so - Derek gives up on keeping track of the actual time - but never strong enough to raise alarm. The shivering is what grabs Derek's attention. Sure, it's cold. He's shivered occasionally, but he can't even see his breath fogging. He quirks his head to the side, checking the air in front of Stiles' face. He spots a wisp of white, but it's barely noticeable.

Then how the hell can he practically  _feel_  the cold radiating off of him?

Not really thinking as much as focusing on necessities, he shrugs his charcoal-colored coat off his back and clears his throat. Funnily enough, it's enough for Stiles to pause and peer over his shoulder.

Derek extends the piece of clothing.

Stiles gives him an odd look that Derek can't decipher, but he takes it with a trembling hand and pulls it over his good arm, leaving it to hang over his bad one before continuing forward. Bringing his face to the crook of his elbow, he coughs wetly into it.

Damn Acheri.

"S-so are you gonna t-tell me if this s-sickness is fatal or not?" Stiles' voice is slow and thick and it reminds Derek of when he would spend the winter nights outside for too long, lips numbing enough to make it difficult to speak normally without slowing down. He grimaces.

He honestly isn't sure. Once he figured out Peter had been lying about all his tales of the Acheri, he hadn't trusted a single sentence concerning the evil spirits, except the one claiming them to be real. According to Peter, yes, the sickness caused by an Acheri is definitely fatal unless treated with a rare, crimson tree's sap and the ashes of a previous Acheri victim. According to bestiaries... it's indefinite. Unpredictable. Some live... and some die.

Both possibilities seem more like a reason to worry than to hope. Not entirely helpful.

"No," he answers, noticing the way Stiles twitches like his neck is itching. Considering his current state, it's probably just him shivering, though. Derek can see it in each exhale, the way his shoulders shudder and his breath hitches.

"No, you won't t-tell me, or n-no, it's-s not fatal?"

"Let me get back to you on that," he provides, pausing to glance behind them. He hears Stiles huff something akin to a sigh or a laugh, he's not sure which.

"W-what is that s-s'pposed to mean?"

"It means I don't know, Stiles," he answers exasperatedly. "I haven't exactly taken a crash course on the survival possibility of Acheri victims."

"I th-thought you said you kn-knew about these things."

He stops.

"... You're right," he states simply. "I'll just pull out my  _Acheri 101_  pamphlet and let you read it for yourself."

"My God," Stiles groans exaggeratedly while turning to lean his back against the wall. "You're j-just so much fun to t-talk to, aren't you. Y-you know, like un-clogging-a-public-toilet kind of f-fun."

Derek rolls his eyes and side-steps the teen, feeling the subtle decrease in temperature as he brushes past. Kid's a walking refrigerator.

There's a smooth grinding noise, quick and sudden, lasting only a second. He whirls around, pulse raising, eyes alert as he prepares to fight or fly. Except... there's nothing. His pulse climbs some more. There's nothing where there should be something; a wall in place of a shivering Stiles. He flinches back at the sound of flesh smacking tile.

" _Derek!?_ " comes a muffled, but still undoubtedly panicked voice.

"Stiles?" he approaches the barrier cautiously. There had to be only two steps between them. Two steps. And a wall comes out of nowhere.

There's more pounding, but it's a short, dense sound. The wall is solid, but that doesn't stop Derek from bracing his hands on the surface and pressing against it, eyes flashing blue. But the wall remains stubbornly unmoved. He pushes himself off it with a growl, tuning back to the now erratic heartbeat of his packmate. It's fast. Alarmingly fast and almost shallow.

"Stiles!" he calls, hoping the kid can hear his voice above the frantic yells and hits. "Stiles, calm down!"

He hears Stiles' breathing quiet, but not slow. The slapping stops, replaced by the racing thump of a heartbeat. There's a shuddering sigh, resigned, then a thunking sound.

"W-what the h-hell do we do now?" Stiles asks, voice raspy, probably from the yelling. This kid...

What  _do_  they do now? They can't just go separate ways and hope to run into each other again. This place is like a freaking maze, almost like the rooms are constantly shuffling around, making any possibility of a plan... well, impossible. They could wait until the wall moves again, but that could mean waiting forever. Who the hell knows? Derek grits his teeth, eyes glowing momentarily before he forces himself to take a deep breath.

"Derek?" Stiles prompts and Derek remembers that the ability to hear through walls is only a one-sided advantage.

"I'm thinking," he sighs, pressing his forehead to the wall and squeezing his eyes shut.  _Come on. Think!_

"We n-need to split up." The answer comes before Derek even has a full minute to contemplate anything at all. It sets his teeth on edge because it's a stupid idea that could end in either of their deaths but it's also their only option at the moment. He doesn't respond; just takes another deep breath through his nose.

Whether he hates the words or not, Stiles is pack. Whether he would say it out loud or not,  _Stiles is pack._  There wasn't a defining moment, there was no decision. It just sort of... happened. Just like it happened with all the others. He doesn't know a lot of them personally, but he would give his life in a heartbeat for more than just Scott if it came down to it. Stiles' dad, Scott's mom, Lydia, probably Kira now, too... He can think of others, but the rest of the pack is now either dead or gone. Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Allison, Ethan, Aiden... But not all of them had an initiation, they just... stuck together. Again, not personally, but... The unspoken support was always there, even from Allison. Even from the  _Argents_. They were all on the same side. They all followed the same leader into the fire.

And the pack doesn't 'split up'. Never intentionally.

Unless it's the only option.

He huffs another breath. "Okay," he says, surprised at the clarity and confidence in the simple word. Because that's who he is. He's the one who does what is needed, no matter if it's not pretty, not honorable, not condoned, he does what needs to be done...

Scott doesn't. Scott does what's right.

There's a pause, then a shaky sigh. If Derek can only be thankful for one thing, it's that he handed over his coat before the wall intercepted them.

Surprisingly sudden, he can hear shuffled footsteps backing away and shit, this is such a bad idea.

"Stiles." He says it stiffly, but hopefully loud enough to be heard. The footsteps stop. "... Be careful." _Because if you don't, I will kill you._

There's a scoff of laughter; a simple and terse noise. "You too, Sourwolf."

000

"They are essentially in a different dimension."

Scott freezes, eyes rounding. He can see Lydia's similar reaction to his left, but can't turn his gaze from his boss's very serious expression. Only when his eyes start to feel dry does he blink, stepping away from Derek towards Deaton.

"What?" he breathes because What. The. Hell? A different  _dimension?_  What the hell is his life?

"A... psychological dimension. It's mostly aspects of your psych and mental activity, but it does involve many areas of the physical. Almost like... a dream."

Scott only continues to stare.

"The human mind can only draw from things it has already sensed; things it's seen, smelled, heard, tasted," Deaton starts to explain, glancing between the teenagers to make sure they're listening. "It has never actually made something new. Just combinations of the old to make something unique. This dimension, depending on who it's drawing from, holds all the gathered information, although seventy percent of this data is hardly ever experienced. It's the... predominant ideas that you usually run into, but it's impossible to say that you won't see any random, old memory there. The world is virtually unpredictable."

"B-but... How did Stiles' arm break if he's just inside his... his mind?" Scott sputters, head racing.

"Well, assuming I'm correct, someone or some _thing_  broke it. Like I said, it does involve many areas of the physical. Your mind is put in this dimension, but also your body, in a sense."

Scott eyes the two bodies on the metal slabs, noting the rise and fall of their chests as he does so. "But... their bodies are here - they're right here."

"Yes, but they are also in Mana Yātarā."

Lydia furrows her brow and purses her lips at the name, prompting Deaton to explain.

"Mana; the Tahitian word for power, or spirit and soul. It's mostly oriented with the supernatural in Austronesian languages. Yātarā means travel or traveler. Mana Yātarā. Spirit Traveler. The Mana Yātarā is where the physical can interact with the spiritual, even more specifically,  _someone's_  spirit. Today, people may use spirit and mind interchangeably, so is this case. Spirit or mind meaning the essence of your being, if you will. What makes you, you.

In Mana Yātarā, you can interact with your spirit, or your mind, in physical form. Mana Yātarā is infinite, because your mind is infinite. Even the things you can't remember still reside in your mind, you just lose access to them. In Mana Yātarā, you can re-access them.

The catch is that the physical isn't designed to be in such a spiritual world, so unless a specific situation arises, you can get lost in your own head, _especially_  if you are in someone else's." He gives them both an odd look, intense, coffee-colored eyes darkening.

"'Someone else's'?" Lydia questions, looking like a frightened doe about to bolt.

"Unless Derek set up the incantation himself, Stiles' and Derek's minds are on the same plane. That's why both of them are comatose."

"Comatose?" Scott repeats while stepping closer to the veterinarian, feeling strangely lost.

"In order to interact with one realm at a time, this body is rendered unconscious until their other physical form is canceled out. In other words, we will observe them as asleep until the spell is either countered or discontinued." With a sigh, he leans back against the counter, bracing his palms on the edge. "Their body in Mana Yātarā is directly tied to their body here. Whatever happens to them there, happens to them here. If anything from an outside party is inflicted on them, we will see it... But unfortunately, it doesn't work the other way around."

The oxygen seeps out of Scott's lungs, his mind caught on the word 'unfortunately'. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning, for example, if their heart stops beating... we cannot restart it from this end, unless given access."

Scott hears Lydia gasp before everything else fades into a dull pulsing noise, his vision flashing red. Stiles. Derek... If Stiles' recent obstacles and Derek's personality is anything to go by, there could be tons of things that could stop their heart. As he's seen, bones can break, so he's betting blood can flow.

"Given access? What does that mean?" Lydia's crystal voice pulls Scott back to the present and his stomach curls, an agitated roar clawing to be released in the back of his throat.

"It's up to the enchanter or the enchanted. Certain mental areas or images can pull them, however slightly, back towards this world. According to how much they are 'pulled', we can interact with them to certain degrees. Whether it's just hearing our voice or..." He eyes Scott. "... getting lucky enough to restart their heart."

"But who did this?" Scott demands, clenching his hands into fists, growing pinpricks deepening into his palms. "Who's doing this?"

Deaton meets his gaze without any timidity, face straight and resolved. "I don't know. But whoever they are, they have enough knowledge to cast this sort of spell. It's a rare one, used mostly for ill purposes. But it's very risky, as you've seen."

Lydia's shoulders stiffen as her eyes jump to Stiles' arm.

"Whoever did this has a purpose. They went through a lot of trouble... So I'm assuming that they are in Mana Yātarā as well."

Both Lydia and Scott perk up, leaning forward where they stand.

"But they have an advantage. Whether it's a psychological tether they brought with them, an object or person, or a countering spell for when they need a break, they can pull themselves out of it because they're prepared. Most commonly, whoever casts the spell participates as an observer. They're there to gather information or to put something in."

The temperature seems to drop, or is that the cold radiating from both bodies in front of them? Scott doesn't know, but it's only a nagging sensation in the back of his mind anyway.

"But how did Stiles get taken? He wasn't even supposed to be there," Lydia pipes up, fingers curling around the fabric of Stiles' shirt instinctively.

"The spell is pinpointed to a specific location; whatever soul within range is affected. Either Stiles or Derek could have have been there by accident, but considering that the pinpoint was in Derek's loft, I'm suspecting the former."

Scott feels struck. Only a couple hours ago, he was in bed! Sleeping, dreaming about the woods, unaware of the entire situation.

Struggling to perform a single thought amidst the constant run-on sentence in his head, he grits his teeth and tries to absorb it all. Different dimensions - check. Helplessness - check. Derek and Stiles within eyesight - check. Dr. Deaton's diagnosis - check. Stiles' anchor close by - check. Clarity of mind - ... yet to be determined.

"B-but...  _who would do this?_ " He looks to his boss, hoping to convey every ounce of his desperation in a single glance. "H-how do we stop them?"

Deaton sighs, his expression sobering, an hint of an apology in his eyes. "... That is the question."

000

**A/N: There it is! Hope you liked. :) I was worried about writing from Derek's POV, but it turned out to actually be... really fun. Just worried he came across as OOC. Please tell me if he did, even a little. Cause Derek is a pretty specific and unique character; I don't wanna get him wrong. :)**

**Thanks for your support guys. You make me smile. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter is a little shorter, but I thought it had a good ending point, so I worked with it. I'm so happy with the response this is getting! Your reviews brighten my day!**

**I'm gonna keep this author's note short, so here's the chapter! Hope you enjoy! :)**

**000**

**Chapter 3**

000

Stiles can at least be thankful he's still shivering. For one, it gives him more than just his footsteps to listen to with how much each breath shudders. For another, it means, at the very most, he's only at the mild hypothermic stage. He rubs his hands together to keep the circulation going, pausing every once in a while to rub feeling back into his toes. His nose, however, is a different story. He's willing to bet it's cherry red and it Won't. Stop. Dripping.

Speak of the devil, he wipes his nose on the sleeve of Derek's jacket again, lingering to hack into the material. He really hopes this isn't Derek's favorite jacket. But considering how much he wears it, luck is not in his favor.

Ah well. He'll just leave a little present for the Sourwolf.

He does a double take as he pulls his face away from the sleeve, eyes catching a darker stain than the others. Rubbing his fingertips on the spatter, they come off crimson, a transparent red against his pale skin. He suppresses a shiver, but it doesn't really work since he's been shivering for the past... who knows how long. This whole Acheri mess is just getting more and more of a pain in the ass. His eyes have long since forgotten how to focus, his head won't stop pounding and he can't seem to get enough air to fill his lungs. That, and his bones feel like they're suddenly made out of ice, freezing him from the inside out. Every other step threatens to empty his stomach, but so far so good. He's not even sure if he has anything to upchuck anyways.

His mind seems to drift off, mental checklist of current misery complete, except for that little box at the bottom that he doesn't really want to acknowledge at the moment. He's got enough crap to think about.

Apparently not anymore, as his brain basically puts up a mental wall between himself and anything other than  _alone._  It rings in his head and bounces off his skull, echoing behind his eyes, repeating over and over, upside down, rightside up, scrambled, in order, backwards, forwards, but it's all comprehendible to his nerves and it sends a sliver of panic in his chest.

He's alone.

In an unfamiliar place.

With demons lurking where he can't notice.

Wearing nothing more than what he went to sleep with.

He uses his good hand to pull Derek's coat a little tighter around his shoulders, quivering deeper into it as he continues to walk. No destination has presented itself, but he's hoping it will just... present itself. Maybe Fate would take it easy for a change and he'd find Derek or even an escape... But that wouldn't really work, cause as soon as he would leave to find Derek and bring him along, the room would be gone and he probably wouldn't be able to find Derek to bring him out anyway and... Gosh, this day - night - had gone to shit. He'd been expecting something bad because - well...  _banshee_  - but he hadn't expected... whatever the hell this is.

How did they get here, anyway? Where _is_  here? He never really found that out.

The possibility of it being a building is out of the question, seeing how the rooms appear to warp and change, not one being stumbled upon twice, despite how many twists and turns he's taken. It's a frickin labyrinth.

But if it's not a building, what the hell is it? It can't be a landscape... can it? But... Not any landscape he's seen. Not on earth. He hasn't really considered life on other planets in the supernatural light, but he supposes he should by now. But can such a place exist? Seemingly infinite and manipulated to shift and shuffle around itself, changing with each second, constantly moving? And housing what, exactly...?

This theorizing is getting a little out-of-the-park... But when has it not? Sometimes all he had to do was start thinking outside the box and everything fell into place. Like finding the last puzzle piece.

He can't help but wish Scott was with him, tossing around ideas and bouncing them off each other. It was always easier to theorize when someone else was there to give their input. But just having someone there...

_Concentrate, Stiles._

So, a portal maybe? Teleporting them to... Well, now he's back to  _where the hell on earth could something like this exist?_

_Okay, come on, Stiles. Keep thinking. Think farther, think wider..._

A different alternative keeps popping into his head, but he shoves it away as soon as it does, wilting his head to count his... fingertips... again... He clenches his jaw.

_One, two, three... four... five, six, seven, eight... nine... ten..._

The air shudders out of his chest of its own accord, leaving him breathless as he backs into the nearest wall, barely catching himself on it to sink to the floor.

_Eleven._

The black tiles on his back feel oddly warm for how cold they were before and he almost lets himself relax into it  _but he can't breathe and he's dreaminghe'sdreaminghe'sdreamingthisisadream-_

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls his trembling hands into fists, banging the back of his skull on the wall.  _It's just a dream. You just need to wake up. Just wake up._

"C-come on," he finds himself whispering between shallow heaves, limbs tingling. He runs his fingers through his hair, gripping it before pulling, only to let go as he jerks his heavy head against the wall once more. His hands feel weighted as he keeps repeating the motion.  _Wake up, wake up, wake up just wake up wake up just wake up, Stiles, just wake up-_

The last resort slips from his throat with ease, morbidly familiar to his muffled ears. "Wake up; it's j-just a dream!" He hears the shout resonate in the halls like they emitted on their own. From a hidden speaker or maybe from the tiles themselves. "It's-s just a dream, Stiles! W-wake up!  _WAKE UP!_ "

000

"Should we call the Sheriff?" Scott asks tentatively, rubbing his thumbs together with clasped hands, elbows rested on his knees. The chair holding him up feels hard and stiff, even if it's cushioned. Lydia sits in a similar chair to his left, her hands folded between her knees, shoulders hunched, making her look strangely small. He listens to her shallow breathing and the hitch of her voice readying to speak, keeping his eyes pinpointed to the floor.

"... We should. The question is if we will," she responds carefully and he finally glances at her pale face, noticing the lines of worry creasing her forehead.

He's not used to seeing her so disheveled; it almost feels like an intrusion. Her hair is a little messy, but in a natural way that makes her look like she just stopped for a rest after running around the school a couple times. Her face is devoid of makeup and she's wearing a simple maroon blouse with a plaid skirt, a little wrinkled, one of the only signs of her quick awakening a few hours before, the other being her light pink slippers.

But what bothers Scott the most is the slouch in her posture; the shadows of the medical center cover her face, but there's something more than just the shadows darkening her gaze. Something that's smothering her usually bright eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asks, craning his neck to face her.

Her expression remains blank for a moment and he almost repeats his question when the corners of her mouth turn down in a small grimace, her eyebrows furrowing more.

"I don't know, I just..." She drifts off, eyes not meeting his. He gives her a minute, nudging her gently with his elbow when she doesn't continue.

"Lydia?" he prompts, straightening.

"It's just that...  _I_  called Stiles. He wouldn't have even been there if..." Her gaze flutters around nervously, coming to rest where Scott had been staring only moments before.

"Hey," he starts, satisfied when she finally looks up. "This isn't your fault. It isn't any of our faults... We're going to find whoever's doing this and we're going to stop them."

Lydia hesitates. The light in her eyes returns, albeit dim. Small victories, Scott thinks as she nods, lips quirking up in a ghost of a smile. "Well... I think I should call Mr. Stilinski," she says, standing up and pulling her phone out of her purse, glancing back at him once more as she shuffles to the corner of the room. As soon as she's turned away, Scott sighs, sinking lower into his seat. If only he could believe his own words. They don't even know where to start looking for the culprit. At least, Scott doesn't. Maybe Deaton...

"Scott?" the said veterinarian summons. Scott whips his head up in the direction of the voice, spotting his boss leaning in the doorway of the back room. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Lydia perks up at that, giving them both an odd look, but quickly goes back to her phone when Scott stands and approaches his boss almost warily.

"What is it?" he can't help but ask eagerly, following the older man until they're standing above both of the occupied metal tables. They both look pale and almost sickly, dark rings encasing their eyelids, skin shining with a sheen of sweat. Scott listens first to Stiles' heartbeat, taking note that it's gotten shallower and slower, but not alarmingly so. Derek's sounds similar, but... a little more erratic. He must be on edge. As he gets closer, he notices a blue tint to Stiles' lips and fingernails.

"Your friends..." Deaton says before Scott can point out the new problem, looking about as hesitant as Scott feels. "...  _our_  friends... both have mind-sets that will make their current predicament... slightly worse."

Scott frowns. How the hell could it get worse? Did he even want to know...?

"Well, as you know, Stiles has just gotten over possession." Scott flinches. "His mind is going to be at it's peak of defense. It will recognize any foreign entity and do everything it can to  _not let it in._ " Deaton pauses, but Scott can't think of anything to fill in the blank because this situation sucks so frickin much, so he just nods. "Derek, as you also know, is a very reserved person. He doesn't give away his secrets unless it would be beneficial. His thoughts aren't voiced unless they're needed.

Stiles has kept his fair share of secrets, but the current focus will be on eliminating any foreign substances."

"I... I don't understand. What are you saying?"

"There's a reason this type of spell is usually performed on one person at a time. Stiles and Derek's minds are on the same plane. Wrapped around each other; woven together in a maze of both their thoughts and memories and hopes and fears... They're _minds_  are scrambled together. When they're pulled out, they should be fine... But it won't be good for both of them right now.

Stiles' subconscious will sense Derek's. It will go to great lengths to get it out and keep it out. He will be desperate and aggressive. His priority will be to defend himself from any outside forces, by whatever means necessary."

Scott feels sick.

"Derek's, although still defensive, will be more precise. He's older and more controlled. He's more practiced in the art of defense. Stiles' presence will still be seen as a threat, but think of it more as a persistent child prying into personal business."

"... So their minds will be working against each other," Scott states, though it feels more like a question.

"Yes. They won't be doing it intentionally, but both of them have a current mind-set. Whether it's from recent events or from a lifelong habit. Both of them will have their defenses up and, whether they realize it or not, their minds will be lashing out to protect themselves."

Things aren't ever easy for them, are they? Why do these things always happen to them? They're just a bunch of teenagers... They didn't need all this shit piling up for them to fix.

"But... if one subconscious can sense another, then how does whoever cast the spell observe anything? Won't they be... attacked?"

"Whoever cast the spell will not be part of Mana Yātarā. Mana Yātarā is essentially nonexistent until someone is enchanted. Whoever has the spell over them will fill up the space. But whoever cast the spell won't be part of Mana Yātarā unless they choose to be. They will just be... watching," Deaton explains, gaze darting to his current patients. His eyes linger on the younger.

"Stiles has gotten colder," he states simply. Scott swivels his attention to his friend, sliding closer to wrap a hand around Stiles' right arm. Wherever Stiles is in Mana Yātarā, it certainly isn't a beach. More like a tundra, Scott guesses, going by how icy his friend's skin feels.

"Can we do anything to help?" he asks quietly, feeling completely and utterly helpless. His stomach won't stop flip-flopping and a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature has set in his bones, replacing marrow with frost.

"We can treat his arm properly and stay close to offer what support we can... otherwise, we can't do much for him or for Derek."

Scott clenches his jaw, gaze darting between his two packmates, heart tightening in his hollow chest. He needs to do something. He'll go out of his mind if he can't. He needs to find out who the hell is doing this and how the hell to stop them. Force them to end the spell or...

"You said something about a countering spell."

Deaton frowns, looking at him curiously.

"Earlier, you mentioned something about countering the spell that's over them," he repeats, a spark of hope leaping inside, flooding him with adrenaline.

"Yes; to every spell there is a counter spell," Deaton answers cryptically but all Scott can here is  _yes._

"Th-then let's do it! If there's a counter spell, why are we still standing around?"

"Scott, I don't think you understand. There  _is_  a counter spell, but... the incantation that sent both Derek and Stiles to Mana Yātarā is a rare one. The counter spell is most likely even more so. This current spell is rarely used because of its instability. It's a risky and complicated. Whoever casts the spell is the person who will know the counter spell. They wouldn't even consider going into it without a backup plan," Deaton stops to sigh, arms crossing over his chest. "I know a lot about the supernatural, but..."

"... You don't know the counter spell..." Scott finishes for him, remnants of his excitement withering until it's only his heartrate still pumping.

"I'm not sure I even know the original spell. From what I _do_  know, it is very complicated and informal, used primarily by anyone who is desperate or of evil intention. Not many risk it."

"I get how it's a risk for the... subjects, but how is it a risk for whoever casts it? If they're just there to observe, what do they have to worry about?"

"Like I said before, they need a tether or a counter spell to pull themselves out. Counter spells are tricky and very precise, but a physical or psychological tether is usually more reliable. Some sorcerers even had a companion close by in case something went wrong, to bring them back.

The tricky part of being an observer is that they aren't in Mana Yātarā  _or here._  Their own subconscious is somewhere between. It's a risk because even though their subconscious isn't in the depths of Mana Yātarā, their focus will be. Therefore, while floating somewhere between dimensions, their mind will be gravitating towards one dimension or the other. Ours or Mana Yātarā. More often then not, their focus is on Mana Yātarā, and so they gravitate.

In order to keep from becoming a part of Mana Yātarā as well, they need regular breaks, even if it's a minute or so. They need to pull themselves entirely out of their trance to make sure they haven't gravitated too far..."

Scott takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly through his nose. His eyes flash crimson and he clenches his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palm. Why the hell is he even here? He can't do anything, so why is he even asking questions; why is he even _here?_  True Alpha or not, he can't do anything right now. His friends could be dying and he can't do anything. He can't-

"Scott?" Lydia's voice cracks in his ears, sounding like fireworks going off right next to his head. He spins around to face the doorway to the other room, catching Lydia standing in it. He takes a step in her direction. "I tried calling Stiles' dad eleven times; it keeps saying the line is busy." It's a simple statement, but it sends alarm bells going off in Scott's brain.

The unspoken questions floats over the room like a pendulum: Who would the Sheriff be calling at this time of night?

If he's even calling someone.

"Why-"

Lydia stiffens like she's been slapped, blood draining from her face. Lips parting, eyes wide, her hand cradling her phone goes slack and the device slips from her fingers. Scott jumps forward just in time to catch it, but Lydia flinches back, bracing herself on the doorframe as her feet slide on the floor.

"Lydia?" Scott asks, but her expression remains vacant. "Lydia, what is it?"

She swallows audibly, gaze fixed on an invisible point in the room.

"That noise... it's like..." Everyone is frozen in place, holding on to each and every word that comes from the strawberry-blond's mouth. She takes a shaky breath through her nose and holds it, a grimace twisting her features. "It smells like..." Then her eyes widen. "Smoke... It's fire. I hear fire." Her gaze meets Scott's, wild and almost pleading.  _What does that mean? What do we do about it?_

Then Derek convulses on the table.

000

**A/N: There it is. :) Again, if anything is too confusing or OOC, tell me, I'll try to fix it. Thanks a lot for your support guys! <3**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This chapter is short too, but longer than the last one. It's a bit fast-paced, but I hope it's not too fast. :/ My week was a little face-paced, but oh well. I hope you guys like it. :D This has got lots of POV hopping, though. Speaking of POV hopping, I got to have some Derek POV in this chapter. *squealing***

**This chapter has got some blood in it though, so... be advised.**

**000**

**Chapter 4**

000

"What's wrong with him?" Lydia asks, rushing over to Derek's table, right behind Scott and Deaton. Scott's a mass of coiled energy, muscles tense and joints locked as he hovers uncertainly over his mentor, watching him arch off the table and slam back against it. The area radiates warmth instead of the previous icy temperature, catching Scott off guard. He recoils, gaze darting between his boss and his friend, unsure and So. Frickin. Useless.

"He's having difficulties breathing," Deaton mutters, Scott's ears finally picking up on the shallow wheezes drifting in and out between Derek's chapped lips. Derek's fingernail beds are slightly blue, as are his lips, the rest of is pallor a cold ash. His chest hitches with each rise and fall, muscles straining off the tabletop. "Hold him."

Scott jerks his head up to meet the vet's eyes, mind churning slowly. Deaton raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Without further explanation, Scott pounces forward, holding Derek's arms and upper body down while his boss straightens Derek's neck and head, forehead creased with focus. Then he suddenly pauses, hands hovering beside Derek's face, forehead loosening.

"What?" Scott barks, teeth clenched as he fights against the older werewolf's movements. "Deaton? What is it?"

The veterinarian pulls back entirely, gaze darting over his patient.

"We can't help him, Scott."

" _What?_ " The teen jumps off the Beta, eyes wild as they meet the gaze of his boss, stomach twisting with unease. "What do..." _Oh... But..._  The knot in his gut tightens further, sapping his body of its tension, shoulders dipping with realization. They couldn't do anything. He couldn't do anything. His mentor - his  _friend_  - is  _suffocating_  and they can't  _do anything._

The heart thumping behind him suddenly flutters, skittering in a pattern that quickly picks up speed. Scott whirls around, but doesn't approach, feet glued to the floor as sweat starts to moisten his palms. Stiles' eyes move beneath his eyelids as his chest starts to heave with uncoordinated and erratic breaths, fingers twitching.

"Stiles?" he hears Lydia whisper behind him and then the room starts to shake... Or is he just shaking? He can't tell, but his feet finally decide to move, carrying him forward in an awkward shuffle to his best friend's side, arms hanging aimlessly at his sides. The stuttering heartbeat of Derek mixes with the shallow thump of Stiles' but he doesn't tune either out. He needs to make sure they  _don't stop._

But... he's heard that heartbeat before and that breathing. Just to a higher extreme. When Stiles had a panic attack.

Shit.

"He's having a panic attack," he informs the others, not bothering to turn and look at them. He wants to reach forward, grab Stiles by the shoulders and force him to look at him and breathe like this; slowly in, slowly out, count your breaths, watch me do it, calm down, just breathe... But Stiles can't see him. Can't even hear him. His own breathing starts to shallow.

He's only talked Stiles out of a panic attack once, and it required hearing and sight. It's morbidly vivid in his mind, trying to keep eye contact then prompting him to watch his fingers and  _count with him because this is real..._

_It's real._

Double shit.

"... He thinks it's a dream," he whispers, more to himself even though he knows the others would want to hear it. "He thinks he's dreaming! H-he's trying to wake up; he thinks it's a dream."

He finally looks over his shoulder at the other two, meeting their nervous glances and hoping his raging hysteria inside isn't bleeding through his eyes in flashes of scarlet or moisture. Their gazes drift between him, Derek and Stiles, uncertainty halting their posture. There's a pinprick of relief in his heart; knowing that he's not the only one wondering  _what the hell they are supposed to do and freaking the hell out._

But the relief is shortlived when Scott starts _freaking the hell out_  because what the hell is he supposed to  _do?_

He's only snapped out of his stupor when Lydia brushes past him, coming to stand above Stiles' head and placing her palms on either side of his face. "Stiles?" she whispers, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "Stiles, can you hear me?"

000

The eery, feather-light scuff across his face prompts him to force his eyelids open, reaching up tingling fingers to scratch at the spot. They come back empty, but the itching still continues, coming and going like the shivers racing up and down his body. He coughs harshly into the crook of his arm and shudders against the wall, trying to control his breathing and coax the stars out of his eyes. But his mind continues to race, working faster than his heart can beat, catching each breath halfway through it's course, leaving him heaving where he sits.

He starts to lever himself off the floor, despite his swimming vision.

 _It's just a dream, it's just a dream, just a dream..._  Then why the hell can't he wake up!? Screaming usually works; why is it not working!?

That thought alone sends another shard of panic into his chest, knocking him back against the wall... Except, he falls flat onto his back, struggling for breath, eyes watching a different ceiling than before. Well, not watching the  _ceiling._  It's hard to see past the fog...

Fog?

He scrambles to sit up, tender shoulder bumping into something solid, stealing more air from him. Damn. He pants and squints at whatever he hit, eyes focusing on... A wall. Wow... Didn't see that coming. Through the growing haze, he sees that he's sitting in a doorway that seemingly carved itself right out of where he'd been leaning before. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised by now.

He tries to stand up, the atmosphere getting increasingly harder to breathe - and that's saying a lot, considering he just came out of the beginning of a panic attack. Wait, he stopped a panic attack... By doing what, exactly? - but his limbs refuse to cooperate. He ends up pitching forward, just managing to catch himself before he topples sideways.

_Come on, Stiles. You have two legs; freaking use them._

Mentally urging himself on, he struggles to his feet, leaning on the doorframe for support, muscles quivering. He cranes his neck to see the new room, trying not to blink as his eyes start to dry. The smell of burning wood fills his nostrils.

The hell...?

A wall of haze stands between Stiles and the rest of the room, orange light flickering behind the thick layers, sending puffs of smoke towards him, itching the back of his throat and prompting another coughing fit out of him. His eyes water, but he takes a few steps forward, good arm outstretched. The smoke shifts and swirls, darker spots pulsing behind the lighter ones, but something keeps him inching through it. Like a halter, he's pulled by an invisible force. Not pulled - he knows he can stop, but he doesn't think he should.

His already abused lungs seize in his chest, burning until his bodily instincts kick in and he lets out another string of hacks, insides trying to rid themselves of the contaminated air. He ignores the copper tang that bursts across his tongue. _Keep going,_  his mind tells him, and he does.  _Almost there._  Almost  _where?_  Shit, he's talking to himse-

His feet catch on something, momentum propelling him forward to slam into the flame-kissed tiles, bad arm cushioning the rest of his body from the fall. He cries out, rolling onto his other side. A nonexistent flame catches on his forearm, crawling up to his shoulder and spreading to his collarbone in a piercing wave of pain.

_Great coordination, Stiles. You should try out for gymnastics._

Expelling more miserable coughs, he rolls to his hands and knees, back arching against the sandpaper in his trachea.

Then his gaze lands on what's lying at his feet. A familiar something at his feet, covered in sweat and ash, skin flushed pink from the heat. A lump lodges in his throat.

"Derek?" he rasps, twisting around to reach the werewolf, limbs trembling from the effort. His voice sounds muffled, not nearly loud enough to reach through the rapid pounding in his head. Each breath hitches halfway in his lungs and grates against his raw throat, framing black around his vision until he's caught in another coughing fit, darkness penetrating his gaze entirely.

 _No, no, no - don't pass out, don't pass out..._  He blindly latches onto what feels like Derek's shoulder, feeling up to his neck where he checks for a pulse. Despite his trembling fingers, he finds one, faint and quick. Slowly but surely, color swims back into view and he instantly jumps into action, stumbling to his feet and awkwardly clasping Derek's upper arm, hoping he can manage the ex-Alpha's superhuman weight. But it doesn't matter if he can or can't; he  _will._

He takes as deep a breath as he can and starts dragging, leaning back to counter Derek's mass with gravity. His fingers slip on sweat-slick skin, losing purchase. Stumbling back a step, the world spins around Stiles, a wet croaking noise jarring in the background. His knees buckle and he's back to all fours - threes - and he belatedly realizes the croaking noise is his own lungs, expelling air that catches in his throat, igniting in it flame. He wheezes until the horizontal form lying in front of him stops tilting.

He wants to crack a joke to the unconscious Sourwolf, but reconsiders when his next inhale can barely be  _described_  as just that.

Gritting his teeth, he reaches forward with both hands to grab onto Derek's upper arm, agony slicing up his left forearm like splinters of wood sliding into his veins. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, opening them as he continues to haul the body towards where he last remembers the exit, hoping to God that he's headed in the right direction.

It feels like hours, but he knows it can only be seconds, and he still hasn't hit any wall, less than the doorway. Each breath is like inhaling ash only to cough up magma. His head feels like it's slowly being inflated, soon to pop if he doesn't air out within the next sixty seconds. He's long since given up the attempt at breathing normally, each inhale wedged between uncontrollable hacks that notch his headache to unbearable levels, sparks flashing at the edges of his vision.

 _Come on, Derek. What do you eat? Bricks?_  He berates internally, using every ounce of willpower outside of picking on the werewolf through his thoughts to not let his knees buckle or his hands slip.  _Or maybe all your diet consists of is some supernatural canine formula for ex-Alphas? You may not be an Alpha, but you gotta look the part, eh? Can't just be a Beta and own it or some crap._

Sheer force of will must not be enough, Stiles thinks as his legs finally give out, bending beneath him and sending them both towards the ground. Halfway down, Stiles' head cracks against something hard, blurry vision whitening before going dark.

He doesn't know how long he's out; it feels like seconds but it could be days for all he knows. Involuntary coughs pull him to consciousness, heated and relentless. A brighter light burns his eyes when he blinks them open, the dim beams reaching through clear air instead of polluted.

 _Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!_  He found the friggin escape, the sneaky bastard. It had to go and disappear and play hard-to-get or whatever.

Joints quaking, he pulls himself up, twisting around to clutch Derek's shoulder and tug, muscles producing a deep ache from the simple motion.  _Just a few more inches, Godzilla._  Each frequent expulsion of air rattles his lungs and grates like gravel in his throat, bringing water to his eyes, but they're squeezed shut as he pulls himself and the body of the werewolf the last few feet into the narrower,  _clear_  room. He finds little relief in collapsing into a heap, his lungs still compacting repeatedly, but he puts a little extra effort into shoving Derek as far as humanly possible away from the doorway.

"There," he tries to say, but it blends into his coughing fit, not sounding much different than the wet noises anyway.

Through tear-streaked vision, he sees splotches of red on the black tile in front of his face, metallic saliva dancing across is taste buds, but he quickly looks up at the fallen wolf-man instead.  _Please still be breathing..._  He crawls over, forcing himself to kneel over Derek's body and check for a pulse, but his hands won't stop shaking and God, why is it so hard to breathe? Oh yeah, his body thinks it better that his lungs belong  _outside_  of his ribcage.

Should he do CPR? No, no, that's kind of impossible to do when you can't even breathe yourself, let alone breathe for someone else. But what if Derek's not breathing? What the hell does he do then?

Wait, but it's... just a dream, right?

... Right?

 _Oh God..._  His chest burns like it's filling with lava, each cough an eruption, expelling bouts of crimson and shit, is that blood? That's a lot of blood. Where's it coming from? Is Derek bleeding? It covers is hands, a smear of scarlet in his shaking, fuzzy gaze, and it's getting darker and it's spreading -  _God,_  where's it  _coming from?_

His brain doesn't get to theorize about a conclusion before it slows, gears coming to a halt, the red fading to a gray and then to an ominous black. The heat sharpens to shards of ice, digging deep into his bones, numbing him from head to toe until he's lulled to sleep.

000

_They're screaming._

_They sound animalistic, screeching and howling at the moon that glows outside, their fingernails leaving shallow marks in the walls as they scramble to find an escape from the hot embers dancing around them, surrounding them, cornering them. The humans are the most desperate, screaming themselves hoarse as they struggle in vain to climb the walls, as if they can shrink small enough to squeeze through the barred windows at the top. The wolves' eyes glow in their frustration, their panic mounting as they try to calm the human part of their pack, but it's fruitless. They're trapped. And they're going to die._

_It happens in a few minutes, the room quickly disintegrating as the flames lick themselves into the corners, devouring anything in it's path._

_The mortals go first, bodies succumbing to the wrath of the hungry flames, their screams echoing in the shapeshifter's ears, bouncing around inside their heads to plague their last moments. The bodies disappear behind the orange and yellow tails, leaving the wolves with their backs against the wall, teeth gnashing as if they can fight their fate with brute strength._

_Their eyes reflect their killer, their tormented wails and bellows forever trapped within the confines of the Hale basement._

The heat disappears when he blinks, flames washing away with each dip of his eyelids, the cool air becoming more apparent with each wink. He goes still, gaze locking with the shining black tiles of the ceiling. The air is clear, surprisingly clear. Almost enhancing every molecule of each tile, bright and sharp as he traces the edges with his eyes. He's not sure if his ears are ringing or if it's just that quiet.

Complete and utter silence always sounded like a high pitched squealing to him, if he strained his ears hard enough to hear noises when there were none to hear.

He clenches his jaw and tunes in to his surroundings, slowing his breathing in concentration.

Someone else is breathing too. It's a weak and painful noise, each inhale and exhale grating against lungs and hitching momentarily.

Derek lifts his head from the floor, muscles aching from the simple movement. His throat feels like raw sandpaper, tender and swollen as he swallows, his chest rattling slightly. The room spins and his eyes feel like they hopped on a merry-go-round, spinning and rolling in their sockets until he squeezes his eyes shut.

He winces as he reopens them, sighing when the room stays still...

Until he notices the blood. It's spattered on the left side of his shirt and there are spots on the floor. He bolts upright, ignoring the nausea that rolls in his stomach from the movement.

He sees Stiles first - his ashen complexion, hair sticking to his forehead, shoulders trembling from the cold, make-shift sling no longer supporting his injured arm, sprawled on his back in a mess of limbs - then he sees the blood that the teen's knees are in, a small pool of it staining his sweats, smeared on his hands, dried on his lips and trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Time slows to a stop, Derek's mind clearing itself apart from one image, analyzing the remaining picture, putting it on it's head, it's side, zooming in, zooming out, studying every detail, engraving itself into a monument in his mind.

Then he launches himself forward, vision going red to match the spatters around him as he grabs Stiles by the shoulders and gives him a gentle shake, willing those eyes to open and that mouth to start spewing sarcastic, stupid comments.

"Stiles?" he snaps, listening closely to hear the teen's breathing once more. A sharp thumping noise penetrates his concentration, butting in to mix with the sound of Stiles' lungs expanding and contracting. It's a relatively steady beat, treading in and out of pattern but sticking to a beat for the most part...

Footsteps.

They sound like clothed soles slapping against the tiles, the beat suddenly familiar in a way. He's heard those footsteps before, but he can't pinpoint from where. The thought of another human being in this hell-hole should be comforting, but all it manages to do is stab another spike of unease in the werewolf's chest, setting off an alarm in his head.

He glances back down at the body in his hands, moving his knuckles to feel Stiles' forehead, recoiling when he comes in contact with the warm skin. Shit.

"Stiles!" he repeats, louder this time, patting Stiles' face gingerly. "Stiles, wake up," he orders. The footsteps sound far away, but also like they're getting closer. They may sound human, but he's not willing to relax at the thought until he sees it himself.

"Dammit," he curses as he grabs the teenager by the shoulders again, shaking a bit harder, but not hard enough to worsen injuries. "Wake up, Stiles!"

Stiles' head lulls, flopping like a rag doll, expression lax as a dribble of blood slides down his face. "Wake up, dammit!" he barks, eyes flashing blue.

Stiles suddenly twitches and his head bobs, breath hitching midway. He goes rigid as a wet cough spurts more blood from his mouth, but Derek quickly maneuvers him onto his side, fingers clutching Stiles by the shoulder. The skin between his eyebrows wrinkle, face twisting in a grimace, prompting Derek to retract his hand and clench it into a fist.

"Stiles?" he questions, breathing carefully like one wrong move could send Stiles back into oblivion. The footsteps are definitely closer, unnervingly closer, but he can't move his gaze from the bleeding form in front of him, body coiled, ready for action.

The only response is a string of raw hacks, more crimson dripping onto the floor. Stiles gasps through it and curls on his side, going limp when the fit finally ceases, breathing harshly against his bloodstained hand.

"Well," he wheezes and Derek perks up, leaning closer to hear, keeping his supernatural hearing on the approaching footfalls. Stiles takes a few more exaggerated deep breaths, eyes still closed. "... that sucked," he finishes on an exhale, bloody lips thinning in a hint of a smirk, even though it makes him look hideously pathetic. Derek lets his body relax a fraction, shaking his head.

"You're unbelievable," he responds halfheartedly, leaning back on his haunches.

"You're just embarrassed cause I saved your little werewolf ass." A goofy grin spreads across his face, blood leaking down the side of his chin.

Derek frowns, mind backtracking in a jumble of memories, halting as flashes of fire and smoke penetrate his head, a shiver tickling the back of his neck. He was trapped. Walked into a room and there was suddenly no door anymore and fire was coming out of nowhere, burning on nothing, the smell of combusting wood clouding his lungs. And Stiles...

"Wait, how did you get in?" Derek asks, hovering as Stiles props himself up on his good elbow, eyelids fluttering.

"Get 'n wh're?" he slurs.

"Into the room? I couldn't find I door."

Stiles shrugs, wincing as he pulls his bad shoulder. He braces his hand on the floor and levers himself into a sitting position, swaying. Derek stills him.

"Dunno..." he mumbles, eyes blinking owlishly at him. "The wall just... made a door."

The corners of Derek's mouth turn down. He's really starting to hate this place. It's screwed up and it's screwing with them.

"Y'know, you should really..." The sentence drops off, Stiles' gaze steadying on something just over Derek's shoulder, expression darkening into shock, but also something else... Fear? But more... Worry. Stiles heart starts pumping rapidly in his chest, wheezing breaths getting slower.

"Dad?" he whispers, voice cracking on the single word.

000

**A/N: Tada! There's chapter 4. Hope you guys liked it.**

**Btw, if you guys have any questions, theories, anything, I will be happy to answer them, but I won't give out any spoilers of any kind. ;)**

**Anyways, love you guys. Your support is AWESOME. It really helps.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I APOLOGIZE. Things got a little crazy in my head and I got realllly distracted. I knew what I wanted to happen, I was just too distracted to actually write it out. So, this chapter is short, but hopefully, the next will be longer now that I'm back on track. :) Sorry for the wait, guys.**

**Anyway, MORE DEREK POV. Enjoy!**

**000**

**Chapter 5**

000

They're okay.

_They're okay._

Scott squirms in his chair, glancing between the two males lying limp on the tables to either side of him, monitoring each heartbeat while keeping a peripheral on Lydia, who stands in the doorway of the room, nervously biting her lip. He doesn't know how it happened exactly, but he does know that all it took was a little whispering from Lydia and Stiles' heartrate gradually went down. He was far from okay and his heartrate was still too fast, as was Derek's, and both of them were covered in sweat and hot to the touch, but the panic attack symptoms had disappeared.

Now the pink tint to Derek's skin is gone and each breath is no longer strained. Stiles' skin is still too pale and, according to Deaton, is running a moderate fever, but none of them seem too alarmed as of this moment.

Lydia, however, looks shaken - more than before, anyway - and after a few other attempts at phoning the Sheriff, she looks even worse. The  _thu-thump_  of her heart is constantly rising, then lowering, rising, then lowering, rising, then-

"Did you get a hold of him?" Scott asks, knowing full well that the wild look in her eyes wouldn't be there if she had.

She shakes her head. "It still says the line's busy." Her voice is quiet and rough, squeaking like the hinges of a hospital room's door that she had once inhabited. Scott nods, trying not to look to alarmed when she flinches.

Almost tiptoeing, she turns around and inches out of the room, only pausing when Scott stands from his chair.

"Lydia?"

He hears her exhale a shaky breath.

"I-I... I just need a minute." Scott blinks. "Outside. I'll just be outside."

And with that, she cautiously walks off like the tiles are made of ice, ready to either break or carry her across the room without her consent. Even the front door closes with a soft click, announcing her exit.

Scott purses his lips, gaze lingering in the doorway as he carefully lowers himself back into his seat. He contemplates following her, but he can't bring himself to leave the two in front of him, their shallow breaths acting like tape holding the seams of his confidence together.

She's okay. She has to be. Scott can't handle it if anything else goes wrong.

000

The buzzing won't stop. And it's driving her insane. She winces as it grates against her mind again, the sound rubbing and pinching her nerves together until she curls her fingers into fists, clenching her teeth. _It won't stop._  Only a pause. Never stopping, just pausing, only to start a second later, then pause again. Over and over, like a video on a loop, repeating itself inside her head.

Ever since Lydia uttered the name of the raven-haired teenager in the clinic, pleading for him to hear her voice, hoping beyond hope that he would calm down and breathe; ever since her fingertips brushed against his face, the noise has continued.

She can't feel too bad about it, though. Because Stiles calmed down; it worked.

But the noise started - and it hasn't stopped since.

She wraps her arms around herself, glancing up at the early morning sky and wishing that life had a rewind button. She'd damn this day to an eternity of... of... nonexistence.

Shoulders drooping, she shuffles to her car, opening the driver's door and sliding into the soft interior.

Almost instantly, the buzzing decreases in volume. Like it was moved into another room, muffled by a barrier, but still as clear as crystal in her ears... just softer. Like it's no longer radiating from inside her skull, but right next to her...

She jerks in her seat and slaps her hand on the passenger cushion, skin instantly coming in contact with a small, smooth object. The buzzing sounds again, this time vibrating against her palm.

 _A phone. Stiles' phone._  It must've fallen out of his pocket sometime on the way...

She looks at the screen, eyes searching for an incoming call, only to see the small letters spelling  _'Calling... Dad'_. An  _outgoing_  call.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion as she blinks at the device. Well, that explains why the Sheriff's line is busy, but... how could Stiles' phone be calling him? Nobody had touched it since Stiles walked into Derek's loft, right after telling her to phone Scott. He had stalked towards the front door with his phone in his hand, lifting it to his ear as he disappeared inside...

_Oh._

000

"Stiles? _Derek?_ " The Sheriff frowns, face twisted in confusion as he starts towards them, steps hesitant but purposeful. Derek imagines his own expression isn't much different. But the whole situation is a freaking mess and nobody knows what the hell is actually happening. He's not sure if he should be relieved or frustrated that someone else, a human no less, is with them. The former sounds more appealing, but the latter is more accurate; he's got someone else to keep track of. To protect. And in this... wherever here is, it's pretty hard to do either.

Something pulls his from his thoughts; a sound. Like more footsteps, but... almost grating with each footfall. Like fingernails on a chalkboard...

... or claws on tile floor.

He takes three steps forward before a looming shadow emerges from the corner, right behind the sheriff, teeth gleaming on a featureless face, claws elongated from thick fingers. It's a silhouette against the dark tiles; the shape of a werewolf. A monstrous werewolf, somewhere between Derek's own wolf form and Peter's, but featureless all the same. Just a dark shape on a dark backdrop. Black against black.

Except for the blood dripping from it's fangs, which is a deep crimson that stands out more than normal against the shadow's chin.

Stiles' heartbeat trips over itself and Derek can hear his breathing pick up.

"Dad," he croaks again, bloody palms slipping against the floor in his attempt to stand. "Dad, behind you!" he says, louder this time, right as the beast's first strike lands. The sheriff lurches sideways from the blow and lands on his side, head cracking on the glass-like tiles. Stiles makes a strangled noise that makes Derek flinch, but he's already moving down the hall, using every bit of his strength to make it there before the other wolf does. He feels his own fingernails grown and his teeth sharpen. A growl creeps out of his chest when the hallway seems to go on forever, the monster already crouching over the dazed form of Stiles' father. The man's hands fumble with the gun on his hip, but the werewolf clutches his wrist, sinking its nails into his arm.

Then the creature looks up; right at Derek, eyes suddenly glowing a ruby red. Its mouth stretches into a grin before moving its gaze behind him to where he imagines to be Stiles.

He roars in response, gnashing his teeth, but the thing only smiles wider, free hand moving to the sheriff's throat. Again, Stiles makes a pained noise, a strained sound that sets Derek's bones on fire as he pushes his limbs to move faster. The beast looks once more to Derek, then back to Stiles.

Then it plunges its talons into Stiles' father's throat, smile getting impossibly wider when the sheriff gags on his own blood. Stiles screams, but Derek stops dead in his tracks, the breath leaving his lungs like a freight train to his stomach. The wolf releases a wailing sound into the hall that rattles in Derek's bones, claws ripping to the side, taking more of the sheriff's flesh and blood with it. The human twitches and shudders like a stray leaf in the fall, shivering in the breeze, then he goes lax, slumping on the floor.

Derek doesn't even blink. His muscles are contracted, holding him in place like stone has infiltrated his veins. His blood pumps loud in his ears, heart still racing as if he hasn't stopped running. Everything else is ringing, and he's almost glad he can't hear Stiles.

That is, until the kid stumbles passed him.

Reality rushes back to him, overwhelming his senses but not enough to keep him from shooting out an arm to catch him by his shoulder - the bad one, unfortunately. Stiles lurches to a stop, a startled cry leaving his bloodstained lips. He spins around surprisingly fast, fire and moisture in his eyes, a strange paradox that only rarely takes place upon the teen's expression. Then there's sharp knuckles cracking against Derek's eye socket and he stumbles, taken aback. Not so much by the pain as the surprise.

Stiles, however, doesn't waste a moment and starts towards his father again, more coughing fits hitting him like bullets. Derek pounces back into action, catching Stiles again, this time by the right arm. He tugs back, away from the best who is now leaning over the fatal wound it inflicted upon the mortal, face much too close to the opening. Derek looks away before he sees any more.

The teen spin around again, injured limb swinging towards Derek's face again. Derek catches it easily and lowers it as he continues to drag a hysteric Stiles away from imminent death.

"Stiles!" he tries, but Stiles continues to shout profanities and curses in his face, screaming for his dad between wet hacks. Blood spurts from his mouth, garbling his words to incoherence. The fits won't stop and Stiles doubles over, streams of scarlet dripping to the floor. He continues to try and call for his dad, but his lungs won't stop their spasms, a few drops of blood landing on Derek's shirt sleeve.

Stiles is soon reduced to wheezes, then his eyes rolls back in his head and his full weight - which isn't much - slumps in Derek's hold.

"Stiles?" he groans, shifting the form in his arms. No response. He swallows and drags Stiles around the corner, lying him gently on his side. He turns to face the scene, but a wall darts out to separate them.

His blood runs cold.

The wall is a blessing, but...

He cranes his neck around to gaze at Stiles, eyebrows furrowing. A shiver races down his spine.

000

The temperature feels as though it's gradually dropping and Derek finds himself sliding to the floor, crossing his legs and rubbing his hands to generate heat. He pauses to blow hot breath against them at random intervals, shivers prickling his flesh with goose-bumps. Stiles trembles in his sleep, skin pale and tingled blue at the fingertips. Derek blinks at him.

A swell of something grows in his chest, clogging his throat. It's a deep, black thing, swirling in his chest and devouring whatever warmth that remains. It's as intense as excitement - which he hasn't felt in years - and as black as despair, but it's neither of them in particular. Definitely not excitement, close to despair, but not quite. He hopes it's not pity, because he imagines Stiles would appreciate that about as much as Derek would. Pity isn't helpful. In fact, it usually just makes things worse.

But it is something dark and writhing, a demonic snake that slithers beneath his ribcage, sinking its fangs into his bones and his heart and his lungs as it makes its rounds.

The snake prowls around, squeezing his heart like a constrictor, then sliding to his throat, making him want to gag.

Then Stiles stirs. His fingers twitch, but his face remains expressionless. Slowly, gradually, his eyes flicker open, revealing glazed over cinnamon orbs, gaze drifting around the ceiling before coming to rest on Derek. Again, Derek's blood becomes stone and he holds still, he holds his  _breath_ , completely and utterly at a loss. What is he supposed to say? Sorry? But who actually wants to hear the words? What do they really help? Before he can actually say anything, Stiles finds whatever he was looking for and his eyelids drift shut again, a single tear slipping down his temple and into his hair.

Derek allows himself to breathe again, albeit as shallow as possible, as if anything above a whisper would break the fragile human below him.  _Skinny, defenseless, Stiles._  His eyebrows knit together of their own accord at the words echoing in his head. Stiles is human. That automatically equals fragile in Derek's book.

Skinny; not as much as he used to be, but still so. More than usual these recent days following the Nogitsune. Defenseless; yes. Too many times has Derek had to 'come to the rescue' just because Stiles is a human and not like Scott or himself. Too many times has the kid made Derek's stomach drop for doing just what he or Scott would do, but without being able to transform, to become something stronger, faster, better.

But fragile? At times, _maybe._  All the hell that's happened recently sent everyone on edge, tiptoeing around the Stilinski kid as to not break him. But is he really as breakable as they make him out to be? He is human, after all, but...

A strong human.

Is it possible to be strong and fragile at the same time? Because the teen right in front of him looks ready to shatter to pieces at the slightest touch, the slightest _sound._  But he's also the same teen who traded himself for an unconscious girl on a lacrosse field. The teen who kept his suffering in silence as to not put his father in danger. Who held Derek's dead weight up from drowning for _hours._  Who lost grasp on reality but still managed to make decisions based on the safety of his loved ones. Who checked himself in a  _mental institution_  to protect his friends and family. Who went through  _possession_  and still manages to plaster a smile on his face.

The boy who runs with the wolves and still holds his own. At times, he needs the help of a supernatural creature, but what's a pack for if not help when it's most needed?

Stiles swallows audibly next to him, pulling him from his thoughts. His eyes open again, glistening, but there still appears to only be one tear track on his face.

"Sorry," he rasps, voice barely even qualified as a whisper. A cough arches his body off the floor and he starts, bracing his hands on the floor and pushing himself to sit against the wall. Covering his mouth with his good hand, he calms the fit down until he's breathing normally - as normal as grating wheezes can be - and wipes the leftover smear of blood on his palm onto his pant leg. "I didn't mean..."

Derek saves the silence with a nod, giving a microscopic shrug of his shoulder. He doesn't even remember half the things Stiles was screaming at him, but he knows it was ugly.

The silence returns - save for Stiles' gravelly breathing - not as awkward as before but definitely stiff and suffocating.

Derek gazes at Stiles' sling and hesitantly reaches forward to correct it, gently taking hold of Stiles' arm and sliding it into the jacket. Stiles doesn't pull back - doesn't move at all. The silence is unnerving and that demonic snake is back, slick and slow as it slithers in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't want to pressure Stiles, but they need to get going. To move. The wall separates them from the previous threat, but it also corners them to any other that decides to come their way.

Before he can articulate any words to prompt them both to  _move,_  Stiles is already doing so, shakily rising to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. Kid looks like shit. Worse than shit; like... No. Not that. Not yet. _Not now._  Death is never an option unless it's the only option. In this case, it's not even either. Derek won't let it be.

"Better get going, huh?" Stiles mutters, voice thick, wiping a dribble of blood from his mouth.

Derek eyes him suspiciously. What is he...? Where's the screaming, the swearing, the sobbing, the despair? Well, Derek can feel the latter rolling off the teenager in waves, strong and heavy, but there's no outward evidence of such raw emotion; only Stiles' still-glistening eyes, but that could just be the fever.

Shaking his observations, he rises also, eyebrows furrowed.

"How do you feel?" he asks, feeling rather stupid for sounding so casual, considering what just happened. Stiles raises his eyebrows.

"Never thought I'd hear you ask that question," he says, voice still quiet and small. Derek pulls a face and rolls his eyes, eyeing the puncture wounds under Stiles' collarbone from the Acheri.

"I mean how's your arm? And... you're kind of coughing up blood," Derek explains simply - stupidly, he thinks is the better word.

"No, _really?_  I hadn't noticed," Stiles tosses back before grimacing, a small cough hitching his shoulders. "I feel like death, okay? But I wasn't really expecting any different." Derek nods, inwardly flinching at the word 'death', and gestures towards the makeshift sling.

"And your arm?"

Stiles glances down at it, lifting it and inch or two and flexing his fingers in and out from his palm, almost in slow motion, like he's moving through syrup. "I-I... I don't really know; it's a little numb," he answers as he lifts his other arm and repeats the motion.

" _What?_ " Derek takes a step forward, grabbing Stiles' good wrist and squeezing it tightly, almost retreating when the alarmingly cold skin registers in his mind. "You can't feel that?"

"Just a little," he shrugs, retracting his arm. "My, uh... my feet too."

"Shit," he hisses as he starts massaging Stiles' fingers, hoping to warm up and increase circulation at the same time. Stiles flinches back, but seems to think twice and lets Derek continue his administrations. "You need to keep your fingers moving, and your feet." Stiles nods almost absentmindedly. "Move your toes if you need to." He tears his gaze from Stiles' hand and glances down the hall, still kneading the fingers and working his way to the palm. "We need to go."

Stiles nods again, pushing himself off the wall... and almost face-plants if Derek hadn't steadied him by the shoulder.

"Stiles?" he prompts, unease tickling in his gut. Lungs seizing, Stiles waves him off and braces himself on the wall, wiping his mouth on his arm as more blood trickles from it. Derek resists the urge to punch the nearest wall.

"Just a little dizzy," is the slurred response as Stiles starts moving down the hall, limbs trembling. Derek hovers close by, prepared to catch him if he falls, which, by Stiles' pale complexion, won't be too long.

The waves of sorrow continue to crash over Derek's senses, but he doesn't tune it out; in fact, he latches onto it, too unnerved by Stiles' cold - in every sense of the word - exterior. He's not oblivious to what Stiles is doing. In fact, he's quite acquainted with the method of burying feelings under a stony facade. It's a very helpful method, but when it comes to the death of a loved one? You don't just bury those emotional reactions without painful consequences.

Derek just hopes this isn't the straw that breaks the camel's back.

000

**A/N: So... I'm not sure what to say... Hope I didn't traumatize you guys or underwhelm any of you or anything... Hope you guys leave feedback; it keeps me going and I LOVE to hear what you guys thought about it/think is going to happen next!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'M SO SORRY FOr the WAIT!!! *cries* I've got a wired mind this month and the last. My brain won't hold still. So I apologize for my crappy writing since I'm a little out of practice. I also apologize for the lack of 'screentime' that Deaton and company got this chapter. :(**

**000**

**Chapter 6**

000

"Turn left up ahead," Derek instructs, mentally mapping their course while analyzing every step that Stiles makes a foot or two in front of him, noting how much slower he shuffles than when they first started, the way his legs practically quake beneath his weight. He can't tell if it's the fatigue or the shivering. With a deep exhale, he slows his own pace to a tardy walk. As far as mapping goes, he's not very good at it. Not when he can't catch a scent of anything beyond Stiles' emotional state and the putrid smell that accompanies it. Stiles' sick aroma has only gotten stronger, nausea starting to pool in Derek's own stomach from the potency of it.

Though Derek continues to predict the moment Stiles will collapse, the kid hasn't so far and keeps surprising him as they go. He sways and falters, but hasn't keeled over yet.

"'Kay," Stiles wheezes, the word barely audible. Another thing that's off about Stiles. A healthy, normal Stiles would probably be bitching about who leads who, what the plan even is, where the hell are they actually going; but the Stiles in front of him stays silent, save his labored breathing. The lack of response is probably also do to the lack of oxygen.

He's still ghostly pale, tingled blue at the fingertips and toes, but beads of sweat adorn his forehead, the back of his neck moist with perspiration. Derek's tempted to stop for a breather for Stiles' sake. But what if Stiles can't get back up if they stop for a rest? What if the only thing keeping him going is... to keep going?

So Derek says little, only giving directions here and there when he feels like breaking the heavy atmosphere.

"Derek?" Stiles suddenly asks on a breath. "I n-need you to... keep t-talking..."

The quiet request sets alarm bells ringing in his head, provoking his strides to quicken until he's level with Stiles, taking in his appearance. His skin is no longer just white and blue, but tinged green in the face, his eyes bloodshot as a steady trickle of blood drips down his chin. Derek ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling him all the possible outcomes of the change in pallor.

"Dammit, Stiles..."

"N-not exactly... what I had in m-mind..." he huffs, an airy laugh racking his shoulders and gushing more blood from his mouth.

"Stop - Stiles, sit down."

Stiles meets his gaze and falters, quickly avoiding eye contact for more than a few seconds, then finally gives a small nod. Instead of a gentle descent, his knees suddenly buckle, his body determined to make the situation as difficult as possible for the both of them.

"Stiles?" he snaps, catching him easily. _Please don't be unconscious, please don't be unconscious..._ "Hey!"

"... S-still here," is the muffled reply. Holding back a sigh, Derek lowers the lanky teen to lean against the wall, pulling back rather quickly as black tendrils of pain sneak up his knuckles. He freezes, gears spinning in his head. It's a different kind of pain; not sharp. But it's deep and... hollow. An overwhelming ache, even in the few seconds of contact. He sits back on his haunches, stomach curling itself into knots.

Instead of asking about it right away, he swallows and tugs the collar of Stiles' shirt down, revealing the shallow claw-marks. They're encased in infected skin, dried blood clotting the openings and flaking down his chest. A green-brown spiderweb of veins stem from each puncture and stretches outwards in each direction like rivers from a water source.

They need to be treated - _fast_ \- but what the hell with? Even if he had first aid supplies, it's not like they'd do anything to a supernatural infection.

Stifling a curse, he releases the piece of clothing and looks up to meet Stiles' half-lidded eyes.

"Stay awake," he orders tersely and grabs a hold of the teen's shuddering wrist. "Can you feel this yet?" Halfway through a shaky inhale, Stiles shakes his head, tugging his limb towards himself.

"S'the s-same as before," he elaborates. "I don't-" A string of wet hacks interrupts whatever he was going to say, painful raw noises that make Derek flinch as specks of scarlet litter his shirt. Stiles covers his mouth and pitches forward, drawing his knees to his chest while squeezing his eyes shut. "God-" he manages after catching his breath, sounding like the Sahara desert has taken residence in his throat.

Derek glances around helplessly, as if a solution will dispense itself from between the tiles and save them from this God-forsaken place. Unfortunately, no such thing happens and Derek's left to go back to warming Stiles' hands with his own, smothering the shivers threatening to spasm his own muscles.

"I'm surprised, D-Derek," Stiles croaks after a moment, breaking Derek from his daze. "N-never thought of y-you as the holding h-hand t-type."

Derek freezes, fingers locked in their massaging position before pulling back completely. Resisting an eye roll, he raises his gaze to meet Stiles', pulling off his best exasperated scowl while mentally plotting out the teen's murder. "Seriously?" He raises his eyebrows. A grin breaks out across the kid's face, teeth stained red, and Derek has to clench his jaw to keep the corners of his lips from quirking up. "You're an idiot. You know that, right?" Stiles' grin only grows wider.

"What c-can I s-say?" he asks, sitting up straighter against the wall.

"That you're an idiot?" Derek mutters as he scoots back and sits cross-legged.

"Y-you're an idiot."

This time Derek actually does roll his eyes before fixing an even more exasperated scowl at Stiles. "Shut up."

Stiles only chuckles, but it morphs into a mild coughing fit that sends him curling in on himself once more. The smug smile still adorns his face when he glances back up. Before he can crack another stupid joke, Derek stands to his feet while gesturing to Stiles' own, twisting his neck to peer around.

"Start rubbing your feet. It will keep the circulation going in them _and_ your hands."

Something doesn't feel right. The hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stand up, a tickling sensation running up his spine. He turns around and puts his back towards the wall, eyes flashing blue.

"You m-mean a free f-foot massage w-wasn't p-part of the d-deal, t-too?" After no response from Derek, Stiles huffs a laugh and complies, movements shaky and uncoordinated.

"I think we should move," Derek finally says, gaze running up and down the hall as if a threat lay at the end of each, surrounding them from all sides. "Come on." Without further explanation, he stoops down and hefts Stiles up, who sways, blanching. He blinks owlishly as his eyes dart around.

"Sh-shit, Derek," he stutters and braces himself on the wall behind him, breaths shuddering in and out of his lungs.

Derek ducks his head and mumbles a quick apology, anxiousness pooling in his stomach. He can't stop from tossing brief glances behind them as he loops Stiles' good arm over his shoulders. Someone or some _thing_ is close by. "Come on; we need to move." Stiles' head comes up at that, a spark of anxious clarity brightening his face.

"You s-smell someth-thing?" he mutters, body trembling from the cold or exertion. Probably both.

"No, but..." Derek trails off as he tries to pinpoint exactly what is causing his unease. "... I just... sense it." Apparently that's enough for Stiles because he starts shuffling them both forward, even though most of his weight is being supported by Derek. He tightens his grip on Stiles as he peers behind them, straining to pick up on _something_ besides his gut instinct. _Come on, come on... what the hell is it?_ He can't hear anything. Can't see anything. Can't smell anything... There's nothing.

But there's definitely something.

Then he almost trips over the body he's supporting, startled when Stiles suddenly goes stiff next to him - stiff, aside from his shaking and shivering - and tenses the wrist that Derek's holding on to. He jerks his head around to peer down at Stiles' face.

"Stiles?"

But the kid's gaze remains focused on something ahead of them. Instead, he inclines his head forward in response, throat working. Derek looks in the direction, searching for whatever it is that halted their progression.

At first, there's nothing. And he thought _he_ was the one with enhanced eyesight. Maybe Stiles' fever is worse than he thought... "Stiles, I think..." And he sees it. It's just a blur of shape; like a silhouette of cream and black and scarlet... and then smudges of purple... and... a face...

Then he hears Stiles' heartrate spike and the teen twitches in his grasp, body folding just slightly. What sounds like a gag convulses his limbs and Derek grips him harder to keep them both from dropping to the floor, a string of muttering slipping past Stiles' chapped lips.

"... _no_... nonononono..." It's barely audible, but Derek can hear it. He almost wishes he couldn't. But he doesn't understand, what...

The blur takes form, edges clear and defined and _real._ A purple dress. Dark leggings. Black boots. A dark green, almost black coat. Pale skin. Raven locks. Coffee-colored eyes, focused. Sharp jaw. Leather gloves... deep red spattered and pooling on the stomach of the dress. He wants to look away, but he can't bring himself to because she's _right. There._

"Allison..." Stiles whispers, pitched slightly higher at the end like a question.

If the girl ahead can hear them, she doesn't show it save for the slight twitch of her right pointer finger.

But she can't be real. She can't. It's impossible; they saw her get stabbed. _Killed._ Scott heard her heart stutter to a stop, held her lifeless body in his arms. He almost shakes Stiles into awareness - almost _makes_ Stiles _look him in the eye_ as he tells him it's _not real._ But then what would Stiles do? He'd think it's a dream. But it's _not._ It can't be. Derek doesn't know how any of this can be real, but it _is._ He can just feel it. It's not a dream. It's real...

But Allison isn't.

"Stiles, come on," he orders, voice low and steady in the kid's ear. He can feel the heat radiating from Stiles' face like a furnace, a stark contrast to the definite cold he can feel seeping from Stiles' hand into his own like it's made of ice. He needs to get them _out._

"W-what?" Stiles sputters, gaze still not leaving the... the _thing_ that looks like Allison. "We... we c-can't just _leave_ h-her, Derek. W-we can't..." He lets the sentence hang, finally pulling away from the figure to look up at Derek with pleading eyes, mouth working to form words. "Sh-she..." He swallows what sounds like another gag and looks between Derek and 'Allison'. "I w-won't. N-not again. Not again. Don't m-make m-me do it again," he says, eyes wet and dark with warning, but also... something else. Something that makes Derek's heart clench.

"Stiles, she's not real," he hisses, careful with his choice of words. _She_ isn't real.

Stiles' expression changes into something Derek's not sure he can decipher, but the fight in his eyes has been replaced by hesitance. That's better than before, right..?

"B-but..." Stiles whispers, a vacant look creeping onto his face. Ah, no. That's not what he wanted.

Derek muffles a curse as Stiles' knees suddenly buckle, tugging them both to the floor.

000

"Is it possible for someone to get pulled into Mana Yātarā through a phone call?"

Both Scott and Deaton's heads whip up as Lydia barges into the room, vibrating phone in hand, face set in stone and eyes on fire. Scott shoots to his feet and takes a step towards her but stops as the words register, a question on his lips as he looks between his boss and his friend.

" _What?_ " Deaton asks, brows furrowed.

"Is it possible for someone to get pulled into Mana Yātarā through a phone call?" she repeats, voice hard this time.

Scott frowns and glances to Deaton, clenching and unclenching his hands as anxiousness stirs in his chest. What does that even mean? "Lydia, what are you talking about?"

She holds up her hand that's holding the phone, sliding her fingers apart so they can see more clearly as she gazes between them. "I found Stiles' phone in my car. He called his dad before he went into Derek's loft and it's _still ringing._ That's why the line's busy... I-I don't know how it got in my car... maybe he had it in his pocket when you put him in..." A frown creases her forehead, but it quickly smoothes out as she looks back up at Deaton. "You still haven't answered my question."

"That's because I don't know, I... The spell has only been used under approximately twenty times since the beginning of time! Most people don't even know about it. Those who do usually have no need of it or don't want to take the chance," he explains, expression still tense in thought. A sigh wilts his countenance, but he raises his eyes to look at Lydia with something like resignation. "Have you tried canceling the call?"

She examines the cell, watching the screen before shrugging her shoulders. "I-I didn't know if I should or not..."

"You can. Then we can try and call Stiles' dad again, maybe this time with success."

000

"Hey!" Derek barks positioning himself between the 'Allison' thing and Stiles, supporting the teen by his shoulders, gaze searching for some recognition in those cinnamon eyes. "Stiles, look at me." But Stiles appears to look straight through him as his lips twitch and tremble, forming inaudible words. " _Stiles!_ " He gives the kid a shake and lifts a hand to snap his fingers in front of his face.

Stiles blinks at the third snap, eyes coming into focus on Derek's but quickly being shuttered by eyelids squeezing closed. He fists his right hand and ducks his head down, curling in on himself.

"I said look at me, dammit!" Derek growls, glancing over his shoulder to see not-Allison still standing there, face blank as she stares down at them. An urge to stand up and claw her out of existence scratches at his insides like a swarm of ants biting his ribcage, digging deeper and deeper until he has to close his own eyes, only opening them when he's facing Stiles again. Attacking her only means he's accepted her existence, which he will _not do._ She's _not real. Not. Real._

"Listen to me, Stiles. Just _listen._ This is real. _This,_ " He squeezes the teen's bony shoulder, starting to massage the tense and frozen muscles there. _He seriously owes me for this..._ "is _real... She_ is _not_ real." Stiles doesn't respond, only hunches over further, a particularly intense string of shivers racking his body. "You're _not dreaming._ " Derek can hear the quiet drip of what he can only assume to be blood falling from Stiles' mouth onto the floor between them. "... Are you listening to me?"

A deep breath, then a slight nod.

Derek lets some of the tension drain out of him, but still doesn't move, keeping his hand on Stiles' shoulder. A heavy but not entirely uncomfortable silence washes over them as they crouch there, making Derek's ears ring with white noise and his skin tingle. He takes a breath and repositions himself to hold the kid by both shoulders and give a gentle nudge. "Come on."

Before any objections can be made, Derek hoists Stiles up to stand, purposely keeping his back to 'Allison' and staying in the way in case Stiles decides to chance another look. Derek doesn't miss the way his gaze keeps drifting in that direction, but he keeps them moving, step by step, inch by inch, towards the nearest bend in the hallway. He's glad for Stiles' compliance, but the kid's _too_ light, _too_ unresisting. Too still. _Just a few more steps..._

And they're around the corner.

Derek stops and leans on the wall, not letting go of Stiles even as he angles his head to look at him questioningly.

He honestly doesn't know how long they've been in this hell-hole. It feels like days. _Weeks._ But it could be as short as a few hours. Either way, fatigue keeps tugging at his limbs and he's sure it's the same, if not worse, for Stiles.

So he lowers them both, bracing himself on the wall, until they're crouching on the floor. Only then does he let go of Stiles and relax against the tiles, even though its surface is ice-cold on his back.

"Time for a break," he sighs, a shiver making his words waver.

Stiles gives him a look, but scoots away nonetheless and settles in a similar position as Derek; back against the wall, knees bent, arms held close. The kid shivers and brings his knees closer to his chest, pressing his forehead into them. Derek watches almost hesitantly.

 _Dammit..._ With a little protest, he slides next to Stiles, close enough for their shoulders and legs to touch, and tries to get comfortable. He feels Stiles stiffen.

"Um... W-what are y-you do-" His voice hitches and he stops to clear it, spatting out red. "-d-doing?"

"We'll stay warmer if we share body heat," he states simply, keeping his voice measured. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"But-"

"Do you want to live or not?" he interrupts, finally turning to meet Stiles' gaze, clenching his jaw. Kid's making it harder than it already is.

Stiles just blinks at him, a strange look infiltrating his expression as his lips press into a thin line. Unease tickles the back of Derek's throat. He swallows it and prods Stiles with a lift of his shoulder, holding his breath. "Stiles?"

"Y-yeah, f-fine," he finally says, body relaxing a fraction.

000

**A/N: There it is! Sorry if it's a bit anticlimactic compared to that long wait, but at least I WROTE something. And just in case you guys were wondering, no, they haven't forgotten about watching the Sheriff's throat get ripped out, Stiles just isn't reacting and Derek doesn't want to bring it up unless he has to.**

**Anyways... *hides face* I'm sooooo sorry. Leave a comment if you liked it, hated it, want to scream at me to start writing better and quicker. XD I need it, any of it. It keeps me going. <3 Thank you guys.**

 


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT, but summer really gets busy over here. Like, this isn't even a lame excuse I'm making up. My family just gets piled up with work and events. *sigh* BUT here it is. I think I'm getting close to the eeennnddd. But I'm obviously adding a sequel, jsyk. ;)**

**OH AND OMYGOSH SEAON 5 OMGOMGOMG I LITERALLY FEEL NAUSEOUS THINKING ABOUT NEXT EPISODE LIKE I'M NOT EVEN JOKING GUYS**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy. I got a little carried away, though...**

**WARNINGS: THEMES OF SUICIDE, BLOOD AND GORE**

**000**

**Chapter 7**

000

Stiles' heartbeat is the slowest it's been since they brought him in. He's not tense, not scared... he looks peaceful, but Scott can't help the twisting in his gut that says otherwise. What if something knocked him unconscious? What if hypothermia kicked in and he'll never wake up again? Scott reaches forward and grabs his friend's hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles. He certainly feels cold enough to be hypothermic.

With a sigh, Scott hunches over and presses his head on the edge of the table, fingers still curled around Stiles'.

"Stiles, I don't know if you can hear me..." he starts, voice soft as he lifts his head back up. "But you gotta hang in there. Until we can figure this out. Deaton, Lydia... we're all doing the best we can to get you and Derek out. Just... hang in there until we do."

It's not as if he is expecting a response, but something still pinches in his chest when only silence continues to hang in the air. He sighs with something like disappointment and stands to his feet, squeezing Stiles' hand with his own. "We'll get you out of this... I promise."

"Scott?"

He whips his head up in the direction of the voice. "Doc?"

Deaton approaches almost hesitantly, sparking more tension across Scott's shoulders.

"I was going to ask you." He stands over Stiles and reaches a hand to pull back the collar of Stiles' shirt, revealing small puncture wounds surrounded by blackish infected skin. Nausea clogs the back of Scott's throat as the smell hits him. "Do you have any idea where these came from?"

Scott shakes his head, a delayed 'no' muttered after Deaton covers the wounds again. "... What are they?"

Deaton breathes out a long exhale and glances up. "It looks to me like... the claw-marks of an Acheri."

"A what?"

"An evil spirit that takes the form of a little girl. It... it infects a host and feeds off of its energy like a leach until its full..." Scott drops his gaze back down to his friend's face, taking in the pallor of his skin, the shadows under his eyes, the cold radiating from his body; he looks like a corpse. His cheekbones even look more prominent. "I will tell you this: if he has any chance of surviving, we need to get him out of there as soon as possible."

000

Derek starts forward, eyes open wide and glowing as they dart around, almost immediately landing on the upright form to his left. Dull cinnamon orbs stare back at him, near vacant as they flutter in his direction. A jolt of confusion pushes him to his feet, eyebrows dipping down as his brain struggles to wake up. Stiles, body angled away, watches him carefully, bracing himself on the wall. He swallows.

"Sh-should 'a known better," he mutters.

Derek cocks his head. Should have known better than to what? He blinks again, feeling as if he's missed something, before gazing up and down the teen, trying to put the pieces together. Stiles looks stiff, but unsteady, standing about a foot away from where he was before he fell asleep, with his toes pointing away... Kid still looks like shit. Derek wonders if he even got any sleep at all.

Before the beta can even start to form a response, Stiles huffs what sounds like an exasperated breath and turns away, shuffling down the hall surprisingly faster than before, although still slow.

Derek reaches out an arm and snags Stiles' good shoulder, twisting the teen halfway around. He still feels like a human popsicle.

"What are you doing?"

"Let go," he says, voice sounding more weary than demanding, eyes still not meeting Derek's. Clenching his jaw, Derek loosens his grip only slightly, eyebrows climbing higher in an unspoken question. "It d-doesn't matter," is apparently all the explaining Stiles cares give. Derek's concern rises up a notch.

"Why not?"

Stiles finally locks gazes with his, but there's only a dark annoyance behind them. A rattling sigh fills the silence and Derek mentally curses that Acheri for the umpteenth time, taking note of how white, almost gray, Stiles skin looks. "... Because it doesn't matter what I do h-here," he says, words squeaking like rusty hinges.

Again, Derek's mind seems to work in slow motion. He frowns as he lets his grip slacken completely, tuning in to Stiles' erratic heartbeat. The teen must sense his confusion because he opens his chapped lips to explain in a near whisper. "I need to wake myself up, Derek." His voice is quiet, but not quiet like sharing a secret; quiet like he's almost afraid to say it out loud. Derek tries not to let his disappointment show. He thought they got passed this.

Stiles probably didn't sleep a wink.

"You _are_  awake," he states, measured. He doesn't know how he knows, but he _knows._

Wrong thing to say because something darkens in Stiles' eyes as they moisten. "... It doesn't m-matter if I am."

Derek recoils a fraction of an inch, something vile and heavy curling in his gut.

"What the hell does that mean?" he grits out, hands clenching into fists.

"It means that I can't wake myself up and I n-need to find a way to. Whatever s-screwed up d-dream my mind conjured won't let me wake up using tried and true methods, s-so I... I need to try something different." He's angled himself towards Derek now, face hardened and pasty, dark bruises ringing his eyes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he still manages to look determined.

Derek doesn't care.

"'Different'? Different like what? Killing yourself?"

Stiles gives a microscopic shrug, putting a bitter taste in Derek's mouth. "I'll find a way."

"Stiles, this is real. If you kill yourself, you're dead. That's it."

" _I know._  Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually a total idiot."

"Stiles-"

"No, Derek. I've had all frickin day, or night - however the hell long - to think about it. If I'm asleep, killing myself would have to wake me up. Hopefully. If I'm really awake-" Derek opens his mouth to interject, but Stiles is having none of it. "-then _it won't matter._ "

A chilled silence settles heavy on Derek's shoulders, but it only registers in the back of his mind, buried underneath the roar of Stiles' blood in his ears. It's still flowing. And he doesn't want it to stop. He can't let it stop. Scott would kill him. The sheriff...

_... Oh..._

"Stiles, your father-"

" _Is dead..._ " he almost spats the words out. "Honestly, I hope to  _God_  this is actually a dream." His voice is shuddering with his lungs, clogged with unshed tears that glisten in his eyes. "But if it's not..." The anger pinching his face smooths into a cooled expression, but both of them know its a practiced facade, altered to perfection over time. "... It won't matter."

Derek can't move. For the third time in this hellish place, his limbs don't want to cooperate, his body rebelling against his commands. Because he wants to move. He wants to drags Stiles away from his ridiculous ideas, even knock him unconscious to keep him from doing anything stupid. But he's rooted to the spot. He can't even bring himself break eye contact.

The whole situation feels untangible. Unfamiliar. Out of reach. He remembers when it used to be just him, his thoughts, and the woods. It wasn't his preferred state of being, but it was certainly less complicated. When he first saw Stiles, he was a bundle of nervous energy, insides itching to move, to get  _away._  But he was a kid. A stupid kid with his stupid friend, trespassing in search of an inhaler they lost while stupidly _looking for a dead body._

Now a dead body is the closet thing Stiles resembles, aside from... the Nogitsune, but Derek quickly tosses that thought away.

But what if this is about the Nogitsune? Because Stiles before that would obviously be distressed at his father's death, but... would it really be so easy for him to take his own life to wake up at the risk of actually _staying dead?_

He stares hard into Stiles' eyes, choosing his words carefully. He was never good at... well... talking. Nicely, that is.

"... Are you sure this is only about your father?" he chances, trying to remove the sharp edge from his voice.

Stiles finally softens, but the shame that replaces the determined resolve isn't much better.

"Is this about the Nogitsune? Is this about Allison?" Stiles takes a small breath, gaze dropping somewhere behind Derek as he bites his lip. "Because none of that was your fault."

Stiles suddenly grimaces and twists away, striding away on fast but unsteady legs, the smell of grief hitting Derek in pulsing waves. Derek's leather jacket almost slides off from the quick movement, but Stiles shoots his good hand up to catch it as he comes to a halt, head bowed. With a couple small steps, Derek continues to try and diffuse the situation.

"It was the Nogitsune. Not you. All that blood, all that death; it's on the Nogitsune's hands. Not yours." He stops to mull over his next words. "Stiles?.. It wasn't your fault. You weren't in control-"

" _But I should have been!_ " Stiles jerks around so fast he has to brace himself on the wall once more. His left hand, although injured, keeps the coat on his shoulders.

Derek's sure that if Stiles' voice wasn't already so rough, he would have screamed the words in his face.

A single tear catches on Stiles' eyelashes and Derek has to force himself not to take a step back.

"After my mom died, I... Everything... I couldn't keep a lid on  _anything._  My dad, he... My ADHD got worse..." He stops to shake his head, appearing to clear his thoughts from whatever direction they were going. "But it got better.  _I_  got better. I..." He pauses, as if tasting his words. "And then Scott got bit by your psychotic uncle." Derek doesn't miss the tone of accusation there. "And everything went to hell, but... Even when everything spirals out of control, people still have control over  _themselves._ "

Derek visibly flinches as his brain connects the dots, the unspoken 'except for me' ringing loud and clear in his mind.

"So don't use not being in control as an excuse because that's the whole point... I should have been."

It's harder than he expected, but he finally manages to get his tongue working again. "Stiles... It could have easily been Scott or Allison. It's not your fault it chose-"

"But it  _is!_  I..." Stiles cuts himself off with a heated sigh through his nose, wiping a hand down his face. "See you on the topside, Derek." And he turns away.

"Stiles-"

And then Stiles drops. Right into the _floor_ ; swallowed up.

Derek can only stare at the empty space that the teenager used to occupy, lips parted. Stiles was within arms reach.  _That close._  And  _again,_  the dark tiles have wrenched him out of sight.

000

He feels weightless for a split second, but it's more like he took just one step and his surroundings changed in a blink. The warmth of his own breath tickles his neck and his knees are slightly bent against a hard surface; a wall... but he can also feel the pressure of a wall on his heels... and his back...

A breath catches in his throat. With trembling hands, he reaches to his left and to his right, knuckles almost immediately knocking against more tiles. His heart skips a beat.

"D-Derek?" he whispers, trying to see past the sheet of pitch black over his eyes. His lungs feel like they're shrinking into raisins. His hands and feet are near-numb, but he still has enough feeling left to estimate his surroundings. And the space is about the size of a frickin _locker._  Maybe even flatter and, after a few moments of stiff maneuvering, he gets his arms folded up to feel around above his head. But there's only about a foot of space before his fingertips hit a ceiling.

" _Stiles._ " The voice sounds distant and close by at the same time and not like Derek's at all, but it's  _someone_  and he's  _trapped._

"Hello?" he croaks, twisting his head around in the darkness. "Hey! Hey, I..." Or maybe he's hearing things. "I-Is anyone there?"

" _I am._ "

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat and shifts, as much as he can in the small space, fighting the stifled feeling swelling in his chest. The voice says something else, but it's too quiet to hear. Blood and acid burn on the back of his tongue when his head starts spinning, disorientation and exhaustion playing with his limbs.

"Are y-you..." He stops to wipe away whatever is dripping under his nose and a metallic smell overwhelms his senses almost instantly, a wet substance sliding down his trachea. The numbed pain in his arm suddenly flares up, stirring up more nausea in his stomach. "Are you still there?" He holds his breath, but he can feel an itch tickling his lungs and the silence only lasts a few moments before he's coughing into Derek's sleeve.

He hadn't felt so bad after hours, or however long, of just sitting there with Derek, but apparently the honeymoon's over.

" _Do you smell that, Stiles?_ " the voice says, distinctly closer, enough to make him flinch. " _Take a nice long sniff._ " Almost unwillingly, he does as he's told, breathing long and deep, but it only takes a second for the odor to make him gag. The smell of old coins fills his head and lungs until he's hacking again, trying to keep anything, except for the blood, from coming up. Well, he would prefer the blood staying, but it's better than vomit. If he even had anything to vomit up.

" _Ah, yes. That smell. Do you know what that is?_ " The voice is no longer indistinguishable, instead it's chillingly familiar. " _It's the smell of Allison Argent's blood on your hands._ "

And then he can feel the sword handle beneath his fingers, feel Allison's flesh wrapped around the blade, hear the air catch in her throat. He can hear Lydia scream, hear Scott's rushed footsteps approaching. Something warm sloshes around his shoes. He feels the slick red on his hands, sees it staining his skin.

" _Mmm, and that? That rush you're feeling? It's all that strife, all that fear, all that chaos, filling your nose, your head, your lungs, becoming part of you. And it's_ perfect."

Kira's shoulder is clutched in his right hand, her sword in his left as he presses it forward, slowly, against the soft skin of her throat. He can feel her squirm under the pain until he penetrates her windpipe, and he stands, listening to the sound of her choking on her own blood. Her body convulses and slowly goes still. The warmth is at his ankles.

Then he feels the soft flesh of Lydia's neck underneath his palms, can feel her pulse. His hands move to her head and he can hear the tears as they leak out of her eyes, her soft whisper of 'Stiles, don't'. A quick jerk of his hands, an audible snap, and she falls limp at his feet. The liquid is at his knees.

" _Aw, poor thing. I liked her. So did you. She would've made a nice suit... Ah, but who am I kidding? We are a handsome devil, aren't we?_ " Stiles can barely breath, his lungs and mind frozen.

Derek's earsplitting roar is inches from Stiles' face, but his chin is in his hands. He rubs his thumb on the handle of his dad's pocket knife, feels the coating of grainy wolfsbane, before forcing the blade into Derek's mouth and up into his brain. The snarl catches in Derek's throat and then he's gargling. And then he's still. Something sloshes against Stiles' thighs.

The sound of Melissa's whimpers breaks him from his stupor and he feels rage boil in his veins. He's still glued to the spot, his mind stretching and fading, like he's floating, but he can feel the dark curls from Mrs. McCall's head twisted in his grip and her favorite kitchen knife in his right hand. He feels his lips curl into a soft smile, the point of the knife lowering to the corner of her left eye. He continues until the point breaks through skin and her screams drown out the sound of crimson spilling from her eye socket. Only when he feels the resistance of the floor on his blade does he stand. The body below him is motionless. The warmth spreads up to his waist.

He doesn't know if the wetness on his face is saltwater or blood.

"Stiles..." It's Scott's voice. "Y-You don't have to do this." Again, Stiles' lips turn up and they part in a friendly grin and it's  _wrong,_  it's all  _wrong._  The feeling of Scott's shoulder under his left hand registers at the same time as the feeling of his dad's gun in his right. His dad's bullets would be harmless... Except Stiles _knows_  that there's a wolfsbane bullet inside this time. He remembers loading it himself. The muzzle is pressed right over Scott's heart, pressing against his ribcage. A gentle laugh jumps off his tongue.

"I know..." He leans over until he's breathing right in Scott's ear, even though he doesn't need to be close for Scott to hear him. "I  _want_  to do this." Then he pulls back just in time for Scott to see his face before he squeezes the trigger. His best friend's body jolts and then goes slack. The thick liquid rises to his chest.

Stiles is screaming; he can feel the fire inside him building up and pouring out, but he can't hear himself and he can't feel if his mouth is open at all.

But he can feel his dad's limp hand, clutched in his own. He can smell the blood. He can see the gaping wound in his father's neck, in his father's chest, the bones and organs reaching out towards him. With steady hands, he fingers a rib.

" _Hm... We're not a vegetarian, are we, Stiles?_ "

His hands plunge into flesh and blood.

Stiles thrashes in his cage, continuing to scream even though he can't hear his voice, scratching and pounding on his restrictions. He feels his hand brush a lung.

 _Oh God, oh God, oh God, no, please, please, God, please..._  His ramblings go on, but he barely notices he can finally hear himself because he can still  _feel_  his fingers curl around his dad's heart and start pulling.  _No, no, no, no, no, no..._  He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip until he tastes copper, willing his body to hold still, to  _stop, stop moving, stop it, stop please..._

He retreats inward, desperate to stop being witness to... to _this,_  numbing himself from the inside out, shutting himself off,  _stopping_  himself.

The last thing he feels is the dark red, penny-smelling liquid lapping at his chin.

000

**A/N: ...**

**I AM SO SORRY IF I GROSSED YOU OUT... SORRY. Anyways, I'm so happy I finally wrote things. XP Soooo sorry for the wait, though. Even more sorry than for grossing you out, so that says a lot. ;) Leave a review/comment. They /really/ help. Love you all sooooo frickin much!!!**


	9. Epilogue(ish)

**A/N: Sorry to tell you guys, but this chapter is short because it is an epilogue of sorts... Yes. This is the last chapter. That's why it took so long; I was working on Part 2 a bit. :) I promise I will put the second part up as soon as possible. This is not a standalone fic, so I apologize in advance for any sort of... unfullfillment you experience. BUT I PROMISE THiS iS NOt the eND. I just thought it was a good spot to end** **_this first half._**

**I also apologize in advance for any mistakes. I haven't even reread it myself to correct any mistakes since it's late where I am right now. I'll go through and correct any flaws tomorrow. But as for now... Well, I couldn't wait to post it since it's been a while. Sorry about that, btw. :(**

**Anyways, here it is. :)**

**WARNINGS: DARK OVERALL ATMOSPHERE**

**important note: Ish. I recommend listening to the following song on Youtube if you want the feels. ;)** **/watch?v=RWtx0AvGAlw**

**000**

Chapter 8

000

Lucidity reaches through the cotton in his head to scoop the liquid out of his lungs, expelling it onto the smooth floor beneath him until his spine is arching from the strain. Through tear-smeared vision, he sees red. All he can see is  _red._  And it's coming from  _him._  It's coming from the hands planted below his face -  _his_  hands.

He killed them. He killed them all. Without so much as a flinch. Scott, Melissa, his - oh God, his  _dad._  Did he... oh God, he... he ate... No, no, no, no, no...The fog continues to fill his brain, accompanied by a blessed numbness that Stiles can't bring himself to resist. He feels himself listing, the air carrying him away, burying him, drowning him... drowning... drowning...

Just as he begins to feel safe again, an iron grip constricts around his throat and he's being lifted, carried, but not in the same way as before. It's a heavy floating, his body dangling like a rag-doll from the fingers curled around his neck.

The sudden lack of oxygen and sting of pain brings him a flash of clarity, enough to see cinnamon colored eyes boring into him, dark hair spiked in various directions, thin lips stretched into a calm yet unnerving smile. Before he can even process the too-familiar face in front of him, the lips start moving, slow and fast at the same time, but Stiles can't hear a sound, everything muffled behind static and a repetitive thumping. With numb hands, he claws at the vice cutting off his air supply with weak desperation that makes the thumping increase in speed, the fog returning faster with each second he can't take a full breath.

It doesn't take long before his fingers rebel against his brain's command, vision blurring, muscles slacking as his lungs continue to spasm.

He sees the dots of blue just as the hand releases him, dropping him into a heap on the floor. He lands in something wet and warm - too warm. Uncomfortably warm. And sticky. He starts to get up, or tries to, but his body refuses to move, refuses to even suck in desperate gulps of air as he would like to, instead deciding to just lay there. Even through the fog, he finds he's thankful he landed on his right side instead of his left. Small blessings. Not that'd he'd feel much pain from landing on his broken arm anyway. He can't feel much of anything right now.

He just wants to sleep, go back to where he can't think, can't do anything except  _rest._  But despite his bone-deep exhaustion, he can't even force his eyelids shut. It's like the connection between his mind and his body has been severed, no longer connected, no longer carrying the right messages to the right locations...

It doesn't bother him too much, actually. He has the burden of his thoughts for company, but the fog is still too thick for him to register much else. If he thinks hard enough, he knows his eyes are still open, but he doesn't really know if he's seeing anything or not. Maybe someone just... turned all the lights off or... something... It doesn't bother him much either. He finds that nothing really bothers him at the moment anymore. It doesn't quite feel right, but it feels  _good._  He feels weightless. As if gravity has even lifted itself from his shoulders.

Just one thing missing: sleep. But he can't complain. Maybe if he lays here long enough, he'll just fall asleep...

But of course something else has to interrupt him. He's not as surprised as he thought he'd be. But he wasn't really expecting life to be so merciful as to give him a moment of peace in the first place. He was just... hoping. So when rough hands roll him onto his back, a tinge of exasperation sparks in his chest, but again, his body refuses to express said emotion.

The two blue dots fade to dull green, bright amidst the blurs of dark everywhere else. He wants to see what they are, why they're with him, but he wants sleep more. He wants the numbness more than anything right now. The pull is too strong, so strong and he just wants to  _sleep._  He just wants a break, dammit. He just wants a rest. So much he could scream until his vocal cords are shredded, so much he could cry until he's dried into a raisin. He just wants to  _stop._  To stop everything, to stop the pain. To stop the loss. He can't take... he can't. But then again, he doesn't really have anyone else to lose anymore, does he? He just wants to stop feeling the empty hole in his chest. He just wants it to leave, even for a moment. To stop thinking about everyone he's... To stop thinking about anything. To stop feeling. To just stop  _being_  for a sec and just... He just wants to stop.

So he does. And the orbs of green fade to black.

000

**A/N: Here's the thing, I was listening to Sigur Ros - Dauoalogn and got all emotional while writing this and I got a bit carried away. But I think it's a good song to listen to while reading this. That's why the link is in the first author's note. :)**

**I'm so sorry for ending it this way, but I just thought it was a good closing for such a depressing fic as this. But as I said before, this is NOT the end and Part 2 will be out as soon as I can put it up. It won't be like the long break after the mid-season finale that's coming... and now I'm sad about that as well... I will post the name of the fic here in this chapter after I put it up, so if you want that, I would suggest slightly-frequent visits back here until you spot a title and/or link to the second fic. :)**

**If you have any tag suggestions, please please PLEASE post them in a comment. I'm not very good at tagging appropriate things related to my work, so any suggestions would be helpful. :)**

**Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this pile of words I've conjured up and I hope you'll leave your final thoughts, your final review, your summed up feelings about it all in a comment/review. :) I really love you all and apologize for any pain I may or may not have caused.**

**EDIT: HERE IS PART 2: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4643721/chapters/10590843**


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